


Fool For A Lady

by Darkrivertempest



Series: Visiting The Burrow [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Humor, Bawdy, Elizabethan, F/M, Mystery, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the professor for Muggle Studies at Hogwarts isn't all that Hermione Granger thought it would be. Living life after the war isn't going as planned for Fred Weasley, either. Together, they find they are just what the other needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Looneylunafan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Looneylunafan).



> Written for Looneylunafan at the 2012 HP_porninthesun exchange on LJ. She requested a Tudor-era fic. That's what she got. ;) I played fast and loose with some characters in history (Marlowe, Kyd), but not too much. The Christmas theme is deliberate, as the crime described in the beginning is based on actual fact. Credit goes to Bo Burnham for _If Shakespeare Wrote Porn_ \- Fred's sonnet, and a line of dialogue from Elizabeth: The Golden Age. 
> 
> Massive thanks to my betas: D, J and M, who kept me out of historical and grammatical trouble. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters and canon Potter Verse belong to JK Rowling and associates. I am in no way affiliated with Warner Brothers JK Rowling or Scholastic. I do not make any money from the publishing or writing of this story or creation of artwork.

Hermione Granger regretted the Muggle Studies field trip the moment she and the class stepped into the Muggle London Science Museum.

The Slytherins—what few had deigned to come on the trip—were predictable in their snide comments concerning the futility of the contraptions on display. The Gryffindors were huddled together, discussing how to make various items come alive and scare the Muggles that were visiting that day. The Ravenclaws all had their noses practically pressed against the glass, studying each object and its usefulness, and taking notes, of course. The Hufflepuffs just loitered and looked unsure of everything. 

“Class, your attention, please.” She wished she could cast a Sonorus Charm, but that might shatter some of the more delicate things on display. “We’ll be making our way to the Fifth Floor, where some of John Dee’s artefacts are being exhibited.” 

“I thought you didn’t believe in Divination, Professor Granger?” 

Hermione internally bemoaned the fact that Susan Kinard was in her Muggle Studies class, as were most Third Year students. She had heard rumours before the girl was even sorted that she would put Hermione’s pedantic nature to shame. And the rumours were true. Sorted into Ravenclaw, Susan was sharp, blunt-speaking and had a terrible habit of trying to correct her professors… during the lesson. “I never said I didn’t believe in it, Miss Kinard. I just happen to think that one should pursue other academic interests—ones that are grounded in fact and sound theory, not the dregs at the bottom of your tea cup.” 

Most of the students sniggered, for Trelawney was still teaching Divination at Hogwarts, and subjected them all to daily bouts of doom-mongering. 

Susan gave Hermione a sly look. “Then why are we going to look at the John Dee exhibit? Wouldn’t it be more prudent to study—” 

“Miss Kinard. This is the fourth time this week I’ve had to remind you that _I_ am the teacher here, and you are the student. If I need to remind you again, you will need to explain to your parents why you are staying at Hogwarts over the Christmas holiday. Do we understand each other?” 

The teen-aged witch narrowed her eyes and nodded. Hermione noted that this pure-blood distant cousin of the Malfoys did not look one bit remorseful, and she would bet ten Galleons that the girl would just try the tactic on her Head of House, who seemed fond of her. 

“It just so happens that John Dee is considered to be one of the founding fathers of Arithmancy. _That_ is why we’re studying his methods. Now, if there are no more questions, we can proceed to the Fifth floor.” 

~*~

It was a monumental task getting the twenty students to said floor, but once there, their attention was captured by the artefacts sheltered behind thick safety glass and the monotonous drone of the Muggle museum guide. 

The group stopped in front of an object on a pedestal: a round reflective disk nestled in a compact case. The guide pointed to it. 

“Stored in a sharkskin case and thought to have once belonged to John Dee, this object is known as a Claude glass. Associated with Claude Lorrain, a French landscape painter, the base is made from a convex piece of glass with a black backing. They were normally used by artists to look at landscapes. Dee is said to have used this object to predict the future by looking into the glass as if it were a crystal ball. This practice is known as scrying, a form of divination. Divination is the attempt to predict the future from signs and symbols and has been used for thousands of years in an effort to forecast the course of an illness, or find the best treatment.” 

Predictably, Susan’s hand shot up. Hermione sent her a stern glare and shook her head. The girl actually sneered at her! Hermione was about to utter another reprimand when she noticed a man at the back of the group, sporting a long coat akin to a wizarding cloak. He looked very out of place, with odd eyes and a weathered face. He peered at her intently, as if he knew her. Then he gave her a snide look and moved away towards another artefact. 

Hermione, disconcerted, followed his movements with her eyes, forgetting her students. The shabby man stopped before John Dee’s crystal ball, studying it while rubbing his grizzled chin. The next instant, with an abrupt motion, the man smashed through the glass case, snatched the crystal ball and took off for the stairs. 

Pandemonium broke out. Shouts and screams of panic sent the guides and all the museum workers after the thief. Hermione was torn between helping to apprehend the burglar and seeing to the safety of her students, but her responsibility as a Hogwarts professor won out in the end, and she handed each child a Muggle British £2 coin. 

“On my mark, you will press the figurehead of Queen Elizabeth II, and we’ll be transported back to the gates of Hogwarts.” She looked around to determine if there were any Muggles left in the area, congratulating herself for her foresight regarding a situation just like this. Seeing no one, she counted backwards from three... 

~*~

“I want a two-foot parchment on why the reign of Elizabeth I was considered the Golden Age and her possible reasoning for adopting the mottos _Video Et Taceo_ and _Semper Eadem_ , by your return from Christmas break.” 

A chorus of groans issued from the seated students. Today marked the end of the autumn term, of which Hermione was heartily glad, particularly after the dramatic incident at the museum the day before. She had tried to hide how disheartened she felt at her students' lack of interest—they only wanted to talk about the theft, not the era or the items in the exhibit—but knew she had failed miserably. 

The school bell tolled, letting everyone know that the lesson was over, and it was like a mass desertion, so quickly did everyone leave her classroom. Sitting on the edge of her desk, Hermione sighed and crossed her arms, studying the room while she thought of possible ways to make the lessons less boring and more involved, so that her students could really grasp Muggle history. That they were currently studying her favourite era was a plus, but her hopes of reaching their young minds and instilling a love of learning were dwindling fast. 

Chewing on her thumbnail, she tried to think of any re-enactment charms that Flitwick might have, or any potions Draco Malfoy could brew that would allow the class to experience life during the Tudor dynasty. Having both been teaching for well over three years, she and Draco had reached an amicable, if occasionally irascible, relationship as professors. If any of her students got out of hand or required punishment, she would threaten to send them to Draco—who loved to inflict torture upon her poor Gryffindors—so it was rare that they crossed the line and tested her patience. Except, of course, Susan Kinard. 

Resolving to find a way to spice up her teaching, for even she had to admit that her methods left much to be desired, Hermione went about closing up her classroom for the holiday break. When she arrived in her chambers, there was a _Times_ newspaper on her side table, dated December 9th, 2004. The main article described, in great detail, the theft of John Dee's ‘shew stone’, or crystal ball. A smaller boxed section below contained a transcription of notes by Nicholas Culpeper, a 17th century pharmacist, about how the glass might be used. Culpeper's notes had been found scribbled on the reverse of an ancient deed manuscript. 

Hermione didn’t have time to think about why she had received that particular copy of _The Times_ , as she had never subscribed to their paper. Since she was Flooing home to London in just a few hours, she filed it away, intending to examine it more closely once the rush of the holidays was over. 

~*~

“It’s almost Christmas, mate,” George cajoled, worry evident in his voice. “Let me find you a bird to spend the hols with.” 

Fred placed a box of Extendable Ears on the shelf above him. “Bugger off,” he groused. “I told you, I’m just not in the mood this year.” 

“That’s what you said last year. And the year before that. Oh, and don’t forget, you said that in 2000 as well.” 

“I didn’t in 2001, now, did I?” Fred reminded his twin as he made his way down off the ladder. 

“Only because Alice Weathersby turned out to be a bloody good shag.” George shook his head. “Too bad she turned into a right stalker. Who knew she had a thing for war heroes?” 

“Is she still in St Mungo’s?” 

George nodded and handed him another box to shelve. “Right in there with Lockhart. Last I heard, she’d become fixated on him and was offering to polish his knob, not that he knew who she was or that he even had a knob.” 

A rueful smirk played across Fred’s face. “Then I’m better off, aren’t I?” 

“Come on,” George whinged. “I can’t stay here in London this year and I’d feel loads better if—” 

“Nobody asked you to stay, did they?” 

“Well, no, but—” 

“Then go!” Fred stomped off towards the storeroom in the back of their shop. “I know Angelina and the kids have wanted to see the U. S. of A, and this doubles as a business trip.” He looked over his shoulder at George before disappearing amongst the endless supply of their wares. “Someone has to mind the shop.” 

George stared at the spot where his brother had disappeared and sighed. “Someone’s got to mind _you_ , mate.” 

Deciding that another heated argument, as in years prior, would not rouse Fred Weasley from his apathetic funk, George made his way to the entrance of the store. Opening the door, he exited and ran right into Hermione Granger. 

“I’m so sorry, George!” She’d known it was him by the misshapen ear, of course. 

He grinned at her as she brushed snow from his chest and shoulders, even as her hair was being continuously covered with snowflakes from the wintry weather. “No harm, no foul, Granger.” He stepped back to let her into the shop. “What brings you by after closing time?” 

Her eyes widened. “Oh, no! I forgot about your hours. I’m still on Hogwarts time, and the days tend to run together when I’m teaching, and—” 

She was effectively silenced by George pinching her lips together with his forefinger and thumb. “Love to stay and have a natter, but I’m late.” He released her mouth and nodded towards the back storeroom. “Fred’s here, though he’s in a bit of a snit.” 

“Why?” 

“Don’t have time to say, but be a love and spend the hols with him, would you?” Without waiting on her answer, he stepped out into the blowing snow and Apparated away. 

“Figures,” Hermione muttered and unwound her Gryffindor scarf. Laying her coat, scarf, mittens, and wellies behind the cash counter, she walked through the rows of products. 

“I said, sod off!” roared a voice off to her left. 

“Is this how you treat all your customers?” Hermione asked as she poked her head around a display of Punching Telescopes. Having once been on the receiving end of that particular product, she tried to steer well clear of them. 

An audible groan issued from somewhere behind her. “Sorry about that.” 

She looked in all possible directions before she spotted the familiar red hair between spaces in the shelving. “Fred? Are you all right?” 

The head moved to the left and came around to stand in front of her. “Never better,” he said with a forced smile. 

For the most part, as it had always been, Fred and George were inseparable... until George married Angelina Johnson, Fred’s one-time girlfriend. Things had become a bit strained after that, though the twins still did a great deal together in addition to running the shop. But Fred never seemed to want to date much. 

Hermione suspected it was because of the thin, longish scar that marred his handsome visage. It ran the length of the right side of his face, from eyebrow to just below the apple of his cheek. Towards the end of the final battle, while defending Hogwart’s passageways with Percy, Fred had been hit by flying debris when an explosion from a curse struck and killed his older brother. Buried under the rubble, Percy’s injuries had been too severe to survive while Fred’s, though not life-threatening, were debilitating and had caused permanent scarring that couldn’t be magically healed. 

Those who formerly couldn’t tell the twins apart surely could do so now—with George’s missing ear and Fred’s scar, they were easily distinguishable. But Hermione had known the difference several years beforehand. Fred tended to be a tad crueller than George, though he never resorted to anything blatantly sinister. He was also the more arrogant of the twins, and gave credence to the Gryffindor reputation for daring, nerve and recklessness. There was also a dimple on his left cheek when he smiled lopsidedly, which was reportedly rare these days. Not that she’d been around much to notice, but she was kept informed by Ginny Potter on the infrequent occasions she left the Hogwarts grounds. 

To be honest, Hermione knew she was no better when it came to the dating scene. She’d dated Ron for a while, but quickly realised that one-sided conversations about the alternation of masculine and feminine rhymes in classical French poetry did nothing to stimulate her intellect, and so she had ended things on a somewhat awkward note. Of course, they remained friends, and after several months of not seeing one another, they'd returned to the relationship they'd shared back in their early Hogwarts days—best friends who looked out for each other. 

After that, she had become involved in her studies, to the point that she had forgotten what the opposite sex looked like. After leaving university, she had immediately obtained a position at Hogwarts teaching Muggle Studies. Headmistress McGonagall had pleaded that they hadn’t been able to find a competent professor for the subject since the Charity Burbage tragedy. Given the opportunity to challenge ideals and long-ingrained prejudices, Hermione had accepted the position without really thinking about what it entailed. 

Her first year had been a disaster and she was sure she would have been let go, but McGonagall had insisted that she stay at least another year to find her footing. She did, albeit reluctantly, and had found that her former Head of House had been right: find your niche and excel. Now she had all manner of students in her class, and she had broken down and cried during the Sorting ceremony when, two years ago, the first Muggle-born boy had been sorted into Slytherin. 

All their sacrifices had not been in vain. 

This brought her back to the man standing before her. Though he smiled, Hermione could tell that he would rather have been somewhere else. She decided to take pity on him. “You’re a horrible liar, you know.” She wouldn’t take _that_ much pity on him. 

A genuine smile graced his lips. “Ah, then I must not be trying hard enough.” 

“Don’t try too hard, wouldn’t want you to grow too comfortable with the absurd notion that you’re doing well.” 

He frowned and leaned close. “Did my brother send you here?” 

She never realised how many freckles Fred had across the bridge of his nose. “Why would your brother send me here?” 

“To console me, to chat me up, to spend the hols with poor, depressed Fred.” 

“How do you know that it wasn’t _me_ he was trying to set up, hmm?” Though she hated it, it was hardly a secret that she hadn’t been in a relationship in almost three years. “Maybe he thought you’d give poor Granger a pity shag.” 

Eyes suddenly gleaming at the thought, Fred laid his warm cheek against hers, still cool from the wintry chill. “Is that what you want, Granger? A little bit of slap and tickle?” 

She stepped back and almost slapped him. Gritting her teeth, she crossed her arms to keep from doing so. “ _If_ I decide to indulge myself, it would be because that person actually cared for me, and not for some quick, meaningless rut against the wall.” 

Fred waggled his eyebrows. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” He turned away and walked towards a set of double doors in the back of the shop. 

_Oh, that man!_ She gave in to the urge to stamp her foot. Still fuming, she shouted, “Wait! I actually need to buy something!” 

He stopped and waited for her to catch up to him. “Late Christmas shopping? Only fourteen more days, Granger. And here I thought you would’ve already had everything wrapped and under the tree.” 

“Normally I would... and I have. I think.” She couldn’t remember if she had bought Ron the blue jumper or the dragon-hide Qudditch gloves. “This is for school.” 

“Doesn’t that brain of yours ever shut off?” Fred complained good-naturedly as he opened the door to the storeroom and experimentation centre. “I think someday, it will become too large for you to carry on your delicate shoulders, and it will roll off your neck and down the alley.” 

“That’s a cheerful image, thank you very much.” 

“Just trying to be helpful.” He turned and gave her a small bow from the waist. “So, what can Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes do for you?” 

She tilted her head and studied him. “You’re very mercurial.” 

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said, winking at her. “George isn’t nearly so moody. It’s why I let him do the negotiating. Though I still say we would have more suppliers if I was allowed to _persuade_ them.” 

Shaking her head, she laughed lightly. “You’re also incorrigible.” 

“As the day is long.” He picked up what she assumed was some new invention—a fearsome contraption that looked like a cross between a toothbrush and a Muggle hand-mixer—and tossed it back and forth in his hands. “So... that item for school that you wanted? Don’t tell me you want Skiving Snackboxes or Smart Answer Quills.” 

“Hardly,” she said with a wave of her hand. “No, I want to know if you have anything that could let someone re-enact a moment in the past.” 

“You mean like a Pensieve?” 

“Well, yes, except that requires actual memories from a real person. I haven't got anyone's actual memories I can use for this, since I want to go much further back than a single lifetime." 

He frowned heavily. “Why would you want to do that?” 

A decidedly fervent gleam crept into her eyes. “I want the students to really get a grip on what the past was like. To see first-hand the decisions that shaped our world, to understand what factors influenced the way we do things in the present. To gain an appreciation for history that they couldn’t have if they just read about it.” 

“To see people die,” Fred stated bitterly. 

“What?” This brought her up short. “No! I mean, yes, people dying is a part of our history and Muggle history as well, but not that. Not specifically. I just want to observe certain events as they take place.” 

“You’d have your students witness the worst of humankind to gain an appreciation for the way things are, because you lack certain skills as a teacher?” He arched a brow. “What is it they say? Those who can, do, and those that cannot, teach.” 

“That was harsh,” she muttered, looking away. “I only want them to—” 

“Calm down, Granger,” Fred interrupted with a slow grin. “I didn’t say I didn’t like the idea. In fact, I think it’s brilliant. Just wondered if you'd really considered the ramifications of such a method.” 

“I think so,” she said hesitantly. His quick changes of mood were making her feel off-balance around him, and his smile did funny things to her stomach. “I’ve researched several theories, but the paradoxes related to causality issues can’t be solved with a Time-Turner.” 

“Ah, yes.” He laid the convoluted invention on a worktable and approached until he was nose to nose with her. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Just how many twists of the turner did you take?” 

“A fair few,” she murmured. Were his eyes always that soft honey brown? And did he always smell like a forest just after a spring rain? Wait... did he say something? A knowing smirk from him gave her the answer. “I'm sorry, what did you say?” 

Chuckling, he stepped back and went to one of the tables that held several cauldrons of steaming potions in an array that Professor Snape would’ve envied. “I said we’re testing something along those lines.” 

“Oh?” She made her way to stand on the other side, watching him with rapt fascination. “What does it do?” 

He looked her up and down. “Don’t happen to have any school books with you by chance?” 

“Erm, yes,” she admitted, embarrassed. Reaching into the pocket of her long brown broom skirt, she withdrew the book that she had been using during the last class and removed the charm that had miniaturised it. “A biography of Elizabeth the First.” She placed it on the table in front of him. 

“Muggle Queen?” 

“You know her?” 

“Not personally, seeing how she’s dead and all.” 

She gave him an exasperated look. “Ha ha.” Peeking over the edge of the bubbling caldron in front of him, she could only hold her curiosity—and her tongue—in check for so long. “So, what’s this?” 

Ladling a healthy amount into a cobalt-blue jar, Fred then stoppered it and handed it to her. “That, dear Granger, is _Vivo Historia_.” 

“‘Living history’,” she said with some awe. “How does it work?” 

Taking a siphon bulb, he took off the cork and withdrew a tiny amount. “A dab on any object will show you the history of said object, such as who owned something or handled it recently. The Aurors are dead keen on this for investigations into unsolved crimes.” 

She frowned. “And how will this help me?” 

“You, dear witch, need to learn the art of patience. Turn to a section in your book and place your hand on the page.” She complied, and Fred placed his hand atop hers. “If the potion is used on a piece of text or book, that person is able to watch the story unfold. Observe.” 

He released two drops of the viscous fluid, watching them land on the passage of text Hermione had chosen. The next moment, both were screaming, being pulled this way and that. 

When the swirling stopped, Hermione came to a hard landing on top of Fred. 

“Oof! Watch it, Granger, those are my bits!” 

She groaned and rolled over onto a stone floor, fully prepared to lose her stomach. 

“Hermione?” 

“What?” she muttered, ready to tell the redhead exactly what she thought of his little experiment. 

“It worked.” He sounded extremely worried. “Maybe a little too well.” 

She turned to Fred and glared. “You mean this is the first time you’ve actually tested it? Why you—” 

“By all the angels in Heaven! What a most auspicious sign!” 

Fred and Hermione slowly turned their attention to the elderly gentleman before them, dressed nearly head to toe in black. There was an elaborate, monstrous white ruff around his neck that offset the severe colour, and the man bore an uncanny resemblance to Albus Dumbledore. 

“Master John Dee, at your service.” The man bowed from the waist. 

Hermione’s eyes rolled to the back of her head and she fainted dead away.


	2. Chapter 2

Something cool was pressing against Hermione’s forehead.

“Methinks she is rousing.” 

Her eyes fluttered and opened, only to see the strange face of an elderly man leaning over her. For a moment, Hermione thought it was Albus Dumbledore, but this man did not have his half-moon glasses, nor did his gaze hint at any sort of recognition on his part. 

“How fare thee, my lady?” 

Black spots floated in her vision once more. 

“Don’t you dare, Granger!” 

Hermione blinked. “Fred?” 

The old man rose from his seat beside Hermione, and Fred replaced him. “I know I’m quite dashing, but there’s no need to go and faint on me,” he offered with a grin. “Had I known you were prone to swooning spells, I would’ve cast a Featherweight Charm on you.” 

She sat up a little. “Are you saying I’m heavy?” 

Fred gave her a languid perusal. “No, just curvy in all the right places.” 

“If I didn’t feel so wretched, Fred Weasley, I’d slap that stupid grin off your face.” 

This caused the ginger wizard to smile even wider. “Violence—the answer for the simple-minded masses.” 

“Oh, you prat!” 

“ _Ahem_.” 

Hermione and Fred sobered and turned to the man off to their right. 

“Master Frederick has informed me that you are travellers from afar.” 

_Afar_ wasn’t even the half of it. “Yes, we are. And it’s time we continued our journey home, right _Master Frederick_?” Hermione suggested with a pointed look at Fred. 

Fred turned as ruddy as his hair. “Erm, about that…” 

A moment of panic welled in Hermione’s chest. “You do know the path home, right?” 

“Is that wise, my child? Weariness hangs about your person, my lady…” John Dee looked to Fred for confirmation. 

“Granger. Lady Hermione Granger.” 

Dee nodded and then smiled gently at Hermione. “Granger. From whence does your family hail? It is Old French, is it not?” 

Hermione was about to lose it. She was stuck in what she assumed was the sixteenth century, with Fred Weasley of all people, with no idea how to return home—or even how they got here—and she was being questioned by Dr. John Dee about her family origins. Add to that the fact that she was pretty sure witchcraft was not only illegal, but possibly fatal in this day and age, and she was up the river Avon without a barge paddle. 

“Lady Granger has had a most taxing day,” Fred lied easily, distracting Dee. “Perhaps something to eat and a bit of rest will refresh her.” 

Dee narrowed his eyes at the both of them. “I fear that is not possible at the moment. I am to receive the Queen this afternoon before she closets herself at Hever castle for a portrait.” 

Hermione officially snapped. She got up abruptly from the bed and paced the room, wringing her hands. “I can’t believe you’ve done this to us, Fred! How many tests did you perform on that potion? None, I'll bet. I can’t believe I was foolish enough to trust you.” 

Fred grabbed her arm and brought her to a halt. “Hang on a tic,” he whispered, not wanting his words to carry. “George and I have tested it plenty of times, but only with one person. I had no idea it would do this if both of us were touching the item. And you must not think very highly of me if you believe I’d deliberately put your life in danger. There’s a failsafe on the potion—a finite duration of one week, at most, until it wears off and we return to our dull, pointless lives.” 

“We’re in the Tudor era, Fred!” Hermione hissed. “We’ll be lucky to survive the next twenty-four hours! If the sanitation or food doesn’t kill us, the Queen’s edicts surely will!” 

Further discussion was brought to a halt when an armed soldier appeared and announced, “Her Majesty, the Queen!” 

Fred gripped Hermione’s elbow as she swayed and then pinched her arse to keep her conscious and upright. 

“Argh!” she cried just as Queen Elizabeth strolled in. 

Everyone turned to stare at Hermione. Mortification tinged her cheeks red. “I’m going to kill you slowly,” she gritted in a low tone out of the side of her mouth. 

Fred grinned unrepentantly and tugged on her arm. “Now, now, love. Where would you hide the body?” 

Fred bowed and Hermione managed a credible curtsey. They both kept their heads lowered. 

“Rise.” 

Hermione took in the regal woman before her as she slowly rose to her feet. The gown was an exquisite Russian blue damask with a slight Herringbone pattern. The bodice and arms were of the same cloth, with ecru lace covering a modest bosom and neck. The skin beneath the lace was extremely pale, as was Elizabeth’s face. Hermione remembered a snippet of Muggle history, that upper class ladies of this time had worn a cosmetic called _ceruse_ —a mixture of white lead and vinegar—and that Elizabeth in her later years had liberally applied it to her skin to hide smallpox scars and age lines. 

The calculating eyes now sizing up Hermione and Fred had many crow’s feet at the corners, more than the poisonous makeup could cover. Obscenely red lips and cheeks made Elizabeth look something of a clown, but the kohl around her eyelids emphasized the danger of crossing this very powerful woman. 

“You, girl. What is your name?” Elizabeth demanded. 

Hermione swallowed past the fear rising within her. “Lady Hermione Granger, if it pleases Your Majesty.” 

“It does not please me, for I know of no nobility with the surname of Granger. Certainly not one who traipses about in her chemise. Tell me true; who are you?” 

Hermione felt her stomach roll and knew she was about to be sick, but thankfully Dee intervened. “I ascertained that she and her companion are from France, Your Majesty.” Hermione's stomach quieted a bit. 

“Is that so?” Elizabeth drawled, reminding Hermione of Snape just before he had verbally lacerated someone. “I have been given to believe that the girls of the French court possess beauty beyond compare.” She gave Hermione a haughty look. “She does not look French to me.” 

“Perhaps if Your Majesty were to gaze a bit longer, you would find the most intriguing, intelligent, kind, compassionate, giving woman in the room. Next to Your Majesty, of course,” Fred said in his most charming manner. 

Hermione didn’t know whether to kick Fred in the shins to keep him from baiting the Queen of England, or bask in the praise he had given her in such an awkward way. She settled for biting her lip as she glimpsed the ire in the queen’s eyes. 

“You dare tell me that the royal sight is clouded?” 

Fred risked leaning towards the queen, which had several of her guards reaching for their swords, but she waved them off, clearly annoyed. “Not clouded, Your Majesty. Merely… distracted. I am certain you have many beautiful and talented ladies-in-waiting with you constantly.” He winked at one such girl in the corner of the room, smiled when she tittered and blushed, and returned his attention to the queen. “But Lady Hermione’s beauty does not fade when youth’s first bloom has withered on the vine.” 

Hermione’s jaw dropped, and she turned to stare at the wizard she thought she knew. Since when was he a poet of any sort? The Fred Weasley she knew didn’t have one romantic bone in his body... but then again, how well did she actually know Ron’s brother? The flutterings she had first felt in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes returned in full force and she was sure her cheeks were crimson with embarrassment. 

“Such a gilded tongue you possess.” Elizabeth arched a ginger brow, studying Fred intently. “I like you, though your manner of dress is crude and foppish. Are you part of Shakespeare’s troupe?” 

Fred glanced quickly at Hermione, who nodded imperceptibly. “I am, Your Grace. I am at present playing the part of a vagabond, hence my lowly garb.” 

“What is your name? What manner of relation are you to this not-French _Lady_ Granger?” 

Fred did not hesitate a moment, “Fredrick Gideon Weasley. We are affianced, Your Majesty.” 

Hermione squeaked and slightly bent her knees to keep from them locking and causing her to faint, as the black spots began swirling again. 

Elizabeth snorted. “This is unheard of; a commoner marrying into nobility—that is, _if_ Lady Granger is who she claims to be. There is something quite peculiar surrounding the two of you.” The Queen turned to her advisor. “Dr. Dee, I will take these two with me to Hever Castle and see to their welfare. Let it not be said that the Queen of England is not a superb hostess.” 

Warm fingers threaded through Hermione’s clammy ones, reassuring her slightly. “You are most gracious, Your Majesty,” Fred said with a nod. 

“May I accompany you, Your Grace?” Dee asked. “I wish to consult with Lady Granger about a sign I received only yesterday.” 

Elizabeth laid her hand on his arm. “Of course you may, my friend. I wish to speak with you myself.” She gave Fred a coy smirk and Hermione a derisive look, and then strode out of the room, her retinue following in her wake. 

Once the room was emptied, Hermione turned and glared at Fred. “What do you mean, ‘affianced’?” 

Fred smirked. “And here I thought you were so smart. Do you need a dictionary?” 

“The first purely English alphabetical dictionary won’t be written until 1604," she retorted. "Where would you get one?” 

“Truly?" Dee broke in. "There are several lexicons in different languages readily available, but to have a lexicon of our own… wondrous!” he exclaimed with a clap of his hands. 

Hermione groaned. “You can’t tell anyone about that, Dr. Dee. It could destroy—” 

“The predestined path of the individual,” Dee finished, patting his longish beard. _Did his eyes just twinkle?_ she wondered. “I suspect there will be many things that must remain a secret to me.” 

“A lot of things,” Fred agreed. “What is today’s date?” 

“The first of April, year of our Lord 1590.” 

Fred’s face was bright. “It’s my birthday!” 

“You haven’t been born yet, you twit,” Hermione whispered under her breath. 

He elbowed her in the ribs. “Just go with it.” 

She rolled her eyes and gave Dee a wan smile. “Yes, it’s his birthday.” 

Fred whispered, “When do I get my present?” 

“When you get us home,” she grumbled. She huffed out an exasperated breath then frowned. “Pardon my curiosity, Dr. Dee, but I did not see Sir Francis among the Queen’s contingent. Did he not accompany her?” 

“Francis who?” Fred asked. 

“Walsingham,” she expounded. “He is the Queen’s spymaster. Snape always reminded me of him.” 

John Dee’s gaze was sad. “Alas, my lady, Sir Francis is quite ill and the signs are not favourable; I have foreseen his death within a fortnight.” 

She cursed her scattered mind. Had Dee not just given her the date? Walsingham would die on the ninth, and with his departure, a great deal of level-headedness in court proceedings went with him. Dear gods, this was going to be a nightmare, trying to remember what to say and what not to say. And now, they were to be taken to Hever Castle, of all places…with the Queen herself! 

She must have been doing something to warrant Fred taking her by the shoulders and guiding her to a chair. “Focus, Granger. Use that unbelievably large brain of yours to remember what we need know in order to survive a week.” 

The candlelight struck Fred’s eyes made them gleam in a way that left Hermione breathless despite her anxiety over their situation. Unable to speak, she nodded her head and inhaled deeply, trying to control her rising panic. After several minutes, she was able to smile hesitantly at the wizard in front of her. 

Soft fingers touched her cheek. “There’s my lady,” Fred whispered with a mischievous look. 

She blinked slowly, held by his gaze. Then, her eyes widened. “The book! Where’s the book?” She looked around wildly. 

Fred was about to answer when Dee held up the paperback, _The Life and Times of Elizabeth I_ gleaming in gold letters on its cover. “Is this the tome of which you speak?” 

Hermione swallowed and held out her hand. “May we please have that, Dr. Dee?” She prayed he hadn’t read any of it. 

Dee gave her a sly look and opened the cover, peering at the title page. He dropped the book and quickly stepped back as though he had seen a snake. “That is highly improbable.” 

Fred snatched the book and stuffed it inside his waistcoat while Hermione groaned and Dee continued to stare at them. The man could have seen any number of things: the copyright date, the duration of Elizabeth’s reign, the city in which the book was published, even the web address of the publisher. 

“Don’t worry; we can Obliviate him before we leave.” 

“That’s not the point!” she hissed. “We can’t use magic here—they hang you, or worse, burn you at the stake in this day and age if they suspect you of witchcraft.” 

Dee gasped. “Merciful God! You _are_ sent from the heavens as I predicted!” 

“Oh no,” Hermione muttered. 

“Saint Philip Neri, patron saint of buffoonery and comedians, at your service,” Fred said with an exaggerated bow. Dee paled even further and Fred glanced at Hermione. “What?” She quirked an eyebrow and thinned her lips. “Oh. Old Phil is still alive, is he?” 

Dee seemed uncertain how to respond to this casual mention of ‘Old Phil’. “According to my sources, he is still very much among the living.” 

“How about his cousin, Saint Genesius of Rome?” Fred looked to Hermione for confirmation. “He’s dead, right?” 

She rolled her eyes and stood up. “Dr. Dee, would it be possible to change into more suitable clothing?” 

Dee, who really was an Albus Dumbledore look-alike, shook himself out of his stupor. “Yes, yes, my child. My servant Edward will procure the necessary items.” He opened the door and beckoned a young man into the chamber. “Should you have need of anything, tell him, and you shall have it.” 

Edward bowed and said, “May I show to your rooms, Sir and Madame?” Hermione and Fred followed the gangly youth at a discreet distance. 

“How did you know about Philip Neri?” Hermione asked in a low voice. 

Fred grinned and leaned close enough to rub the tip of his nose against her ear. “You’re joking, right? George and I weren’t about to let anything happen to the shop, so we took every precaution known to wizard and Muggle kind. When I looked into having the shop blessed, I found out about St. Philip—he was known to be spontaneous and unpredictable, charming and humorous, just like me.” His soft laugh sent shivers down Hermione’s spine. “Plus, he was accused by the Pope’s vicar of ‘introducing novelties’. I knew then that we had our saint.” 

They came to a stop in front of a door, Edward beckoning Fred to continue following him. Before Fred left, though, he grabbed Hermione’s hand and moved close, crowding her against the wall. His nose grazed her cheek, as well as a light brush of his lips. Her breath caught in her chest, the mad fluttering increasing. She even leaned into his caress when he nuzzled her temple. 

“While stupidity has a certain charm, ignorance does not,” Fred whispered. “We’re not imbeciles, Granger.” 

Her eyes caught his. “I never once thought you and George were idiots, Fred. In fact, I think you’re both too clever for your own good or for the public in general.” 

His look softened. “Veritable menaces to polite society, eh?” 

_And to my heart_ , Hermione thought. 

~*~

Hermione stared at the mounds of clothing lying on the four-poster bed, debating which article to don first. 

“That’s quite a dress you’re about to have on,” quipped Fred as he leaned over her shoulder to study the garments. 

Startled, she turned and threw him a glare. Fred had obviously had no trouble changing into his clothes, but then again, men's clothes were so much less trouble during this time: a doublet, hose and trousers, and he was done. Fred's doublet was dark green, a shade Hermione noticed set off his red hair nicely. The hose outlined his toned legs, something she hadn’t noticed before. The idea of what those muscled calves could be used for caused a warmth to bloom in her belly. She cleared her throat, desperate to focus on something other than lascivious thoughts of Fred Weasley’s body and love play. 

“I have no idea how to put any of this on, nor in what order.” 

He picked up the embroidered bodice and held it to his chest, batting his lashes. “I think you should wear only this.” He sashayed his hips. 

She smirked. “I think it would look much better on you.” She tilted her head to study him. “Maybe a bit of eye shadow, white stockings… why yes, I think you’d be quite fetching.” 

His smile dropped and he flung the bodice on top of the pile of lace, his face heating up. “Don’t they have any house-elves around here?" 

She sighed. "Fred, _try_ to remember where and when we are, so you don't get us both killed. No, there, are no house-elves, and even if there were, I would not use slave labour." 

"Well, a lady’s maid or some such nonsense?” 

Hermione touched the intricate fabric of the gown. “There are only the two girls in the kitchen. Honestly, I’d be afraid for either of them to handle such fine material.” She grimaced. “They’re not exactly the cleanest lot, are they?” 

“Well, since we’re affianced, I could help you.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

She stilled at his words, swallowing nervously. “Yes, well, let's not forget that’s just a ruse, Fred.” So why did her heart wish it was just a little bit true? 

He blatantly ignored her words and peered over the garments on the bed, finally plucking a long, white gauze-like gown from the assorted clothing. “Come on, time to get starkers. We only have an hour before the Queen wants to leave.” 

A look of pure horror crossed Hermione’s face. “Out of the question!” She covered her breasts and groin as if they were already bare to his gaze. 

“You’ll have more questions from the Queen if you don’t have this kit on right, Hermione. Quit being a prude and dress as if our lives depend on it, which they do, but don’t feel pressured, really.” 

She gritted her teeth. “Fine. Turn around.” 

A salacious smile curled his lips. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.” 

“You’re an arse, Fred Weasley. Just turn around!” 

“All right! Don’t throw a wobbly!” he muttered under his breath as he turned his back to her. 

Satisfied that he couldn’t see anything, Hermione unbuttoned her blouse, dropped her skirt and folded them into a nice, neat pile. “Keep your eyes closed, but hand me whatever it is you have,” she instructed nervously. 

The item was tossed over her head, landing on the floor in front of her. 

“Real mature, Fred,” she snapped. She picked up and dusted off what looked like a chemise. Quickly, she slipped it on, plucking at the overlarge sleeves. “What’s next?” 

Fred turned… and stared. In fact, his gaze was so heated, it made her feel anxious, as if she were completely naked. She glanced down, noticing only that she had not taken her bra or knickers off, so they could clearly be seen through the diaphanous shift. Both were black satin, white polka-dots decorating the knickers, bought during a moment of frivolous madness during a shopping spree in Muggle London. They were not the height of fashion, so she had no idea why he was watching her with the intensity of a Hippogriff eyeing its next meal. 

“What’s next?” she prompted when he continued to just stand there. 

Fred blinked slowly, and shifted oddly to the side. “Knickers,” he blurted out. 

Her eyes widened. “What about them?” 

He swallowed, then gave her a pained look. “You’ll have to get rid of them. They didn’t have knickers.” He pointed a shaky finger at her chest. “And they had corsets instead of bras.” 

Her cheeks bloomed with a crimson stain. “Merlin, you’re right.” She hesitantly lifted the hem of her chemise and her bottom lip began to wobble. “I can’t walk around for a week without knickers!” 

Fred seemed to crumple. He strode quickly to her and cupped her face, wiping a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. “Yes, you can. And you will. You’re Hermione Granger, resident know-it-all, stubborn witch and brilliant professor.” He gave her a tender smile. “You’ve fought against the Dark Lord and lived to tell about it. Going without knickers should be a walk in the park.” 

She sniffed. “I’m glad you have so much faith in me, but forgive me if I don’t actually believe it right now.” 

He lifted her chin. “That’s why I’m here. To bolster your flagging spirits, to drink spirits until your bolster is sagging, and to wave flags at saggy spirits who drink.” 

Unable to help herself, she chuckled and shook her head. “You always know how to make me laugh.” 

“Ah, well, laughter _is_ the best medicine. Unless, of course, you’re really sick. Then you should go to St. Mungo’s.” 

She rolled her eyes. “So, what's next?” 

He cleared his throat. “The knickers and bra. They have to come off before you can put the other clothes on. And we'll have to hide them, or vanish them, or something.” 

“All right,” she sighed. 

Tentatively, Fred closed the gap between them. “I can help.” His fingers danced their way across her shoulder, moving the shift away from her neck in the process. 

“Can you?” Her voice was so breathy. 

He gave her a languid smile and stepped behind her. Taking a healthy portion of Hermione’s hair, he laid it over her shoulder, baring her neck to his gaze. “Your skin has a tawny glow to it,” he whispered, his breath stirring the hairs along her nape. “And it’s dotted with freckles. I’ve lived with freckles my whole life—my own and those of my family—but I’ve never seen such perfectly placed marks on a woman’s shoulders.” 

It was a good thing Hermione was holding onto the bedpost, for her knees turned to jelly at his soft words. “Truly?” she managed. 

He chuckled softly and began untying the flimsy strings that cinched the chemise fabric at the top and she watched as the smock drifted to the floor. Hermione shivered, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think it was the cool air in the chamber that caused the gooseflesh to rise on her arms. He unhooked the clasp at the middle of her back and set about ridding her of the constrictive garment. Once it was loosened, he slid his fingers under the satin straps and slowly moved them down, leaving her upper back and shoulders exposed for his perusal. 

When he lowered his head and pressed his lips on the back of her neck, she gasped and turned her head towards him. “This won’t help me get dressed. In fact, quite the opposite.” 

Fred smile against her skin. “Maybe that was my plan all along.” His hands made their way around her sides to rest just below her bra, his fingers grazing the underside of her breasts. “How else am I to _know_ my fiancée?” 

She stiffened in his arms. “That’s not real, and you know it.” 

He sighed and let her go, taking a step back. “Right now, right here, it is.” He gave her a pensive look. “I’m not into mindless shags, Hermione. I can’t do casual anymore.” 

She didn’t want casual either, but neither could she verbalise that what they wanted was just not feasible at the moment. There were too many mitigating factors involved, and if she were to have Fred, she would have him fully, not because of some ploy to fool the Queen. “I-I think I can figure out how all of this fits together,” Hermione murmured and bent to pick up the chemise that had pooled at her feet. She looked uncertainly at him. “I may need your help lacing up the corset, though.” 

His affable smile was forced. But then, Fred winked and the tension was dispelled. “I’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity to tie up Hermione Granger.” 

She shook her head. “You’re incorrigible. Go play with something explosive until I need your help.” 

He smirked and glanced at his groin. “Aye, my lady.” 

“Ugh. Just go.” She pushed him out into the corridor and shut the door. 

Hermione leaned against the wall and smiled to herself, hoping Fred would be determined to woo her in earnest.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the stifling air within the carriage, Hermione tried to draw in a deep breath, hoping to dispel the stench that emanated from those with whom she travelled. The ladies may have been beautiful in their frippery, but their hygiene left much to be desired. 

The two ladies—both named Margaret—stared at Hermione as if she were the very devil himself. She had attempted to return the rude gesture early in the journey from London to Kent, but the ladies would quickly turn their attention elsewhere before they were caught. Still, she could feel their heated regard, and it made an already uncomfortable position even more so. It might have been bearable had she been allowed to ride with Fred, but the Queen had been taken with him when his ability to make her laugh produced a rare smile. So he travelled in comfort in the ornate carriage with the Queen, Lady Tyrrwhit and Lady Carey.

Meanwhile, Hermione had been stuck with the maids of honour from Hell. She had the childish urge to stamp her foot and cry. Her arse hurt from the three-hour journey, her feet were cramped from the poorly-made shoes, she had two harridans glaring at her and saying rude things under their breath, and she was pretty sure her corset was cutting off her circulation.

Unable to tolerate the disgusting odour any longer, Hermione untied the stays on the leather flap covering the window, inhaling deeply as the fresh air washed over her. Both ladies were outraged at her behaviour, if their harsh whispers to each other were anything to go by. Hermione honestly didn’t care. She was about to tell the gossiping biddies that they stank of horse droppings, when the castle came into view, and she was immediately taken with the sight. 

The castle itself seemed less imposing than when she had visited it with her parents the summer she was twelve. Then, she remembered that William Waldorf Astor invested time, money and imagination in restoring the castle in 1903. He also added the ‘Tudor Village’ and created the lush gardens and maze, and the lake that spanned the length of the grounds. As it stood now, in 1590, the massive estate that sprawled over six hundred acres looked quite stark and drab, with nothing on the exterior to recommend it. It was even devoid of the overgrown ivy and moss that usually covered the entrance. But, it had not been Anne Boleyn’s favourite residence for no reason. Inside, Hermione knew of the Tudor-style rooms in the walled bailey, and the multiple chambers in the castle proper. There was only one way in: via a sturdy wooden drawbridge, as the castle was surrounded by a deep moat on all sides.

They came to a halt in front of the drawbridge, and the door was opened by a footman. He helped the two Margarets down the rickety coach steps and arched a brow when Hermione gripped his hand tighter than was probably customary. As it was, she nearly lost her balance, having developed a severe cramp in the sole of her foot, but the man grasped her arm and kept her upright. The ladies in front of her sniggered and gave her a smug look. 

“She is as clumsy as an unbroken horse,” Margaret number one tittered loud enough that Hermione could hear her.

“Mayhap an unbroken horse would be offended at the comparison,” the other Margaret retorted, sending both into a veritable tizzy of laughter.

Hermione pursed her lips, gathered the voluminous mounds of fabric that comprised her gown, and marched past them, muttering a Trip Jinx in her wake. As she made her way along the bridge, she smiled to herself at the distinct sounds of shrieking women stumbling over themselves. She entered the castle, still awkwardly carrying her gown, and heard a deep-throated chuckle. 

“My lady,” Dee said with a slight bow of his head. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of seeing Lady Russell and Lady Radcliffe in such a state of discomposure.”

“I’m sure I do not know to what you are referring,” Hermione said cautiously. Had he witnessed her lips moving as she cast the jinx? She and Fred had agreed to keep their wands hidden for the duration of their stay, so she knew that Dee had not glimpsed the stick she kept very close to her right thigh underneath her petticoats.

Dr. Dee touched the side of his nose and gave her a knowing wink. “Of course not.” He nodded towards a darkened corridor. “I think you may find something of interest in the third chamber on your left, my lady.” He inclined his head once more and departed in the opposite direction.

Dear Merlin, the man was as cryptic as Dumbledore. Tired of carrying the heavy weight of fabric, Hermione let her skirts fall to sweep along the floor as she walked. At the third door, which was open slightly, she peered inside.

Her breath caught in her chest as she beheld Fred, his back to her, completely devoid of clothing save for an odd cap on his head. Slowly, she exhaled, careful not to make a sound. The firelight emanating from the hearth cast Fred’s body in a golden light. His arse was firm and pale, the right globe sporting a dimple that begged to be kissed. Dark ginger hair curled on the nape of his neck, longer than it had been in previous years. Long legs, with muscular thighs and nicely-shaped calves that ended in perfect ankles nearly made her swoon.

Hermione closed her eyes to regain her composure, only to reopen them and see that he had turned around. She stifled a squeak and drank in the masculine body on display. Even from this distance, she could tell that the hair on his chest was sparse, but a furrowed line made its way down his stomach and grew lush surrounding his quiescent cock. Oh, heavens! Was drool starting to accumulate in her slack mouth? She could feel the heat of a blush flooding her cheeks as she averted her eyes, trying to focus on anything besides the most potent proof that Weasley men were blessed in _that_ department.

“See something you like?”

The squeak she had been trying to keep silent slipped from her mouth as she started, and her eyes shot back to Fred to see that he was gazing at her without the slightest embarrassment. “You’re an exhibitionist!” she said, rather flummoxed. 

Fred casually strolled to the door and opened it wide, making no attempt to hide his… assets. “And you’re a voyeur. Works out perfectly, don’t you think?” He gave her a smirk.

She swallowed nervously and kept her gaze strictly trained on his face. “Why are you naked to begin with? Apart from the daft headgear, of course.”

He smile and turned away, leaving the door open. He walked back to the trunk and the pile of clothing placed on top. “I am to be Queen Elizabeth’s jester for the time that she’s here.” He picked up the bi-coloured hose and wrinkled his nose. “Though I question her fashion sense.”

Keeping her gaze somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling, Hermione edged her way into the room and closed the door, lest anyone passing by be tempted to have a peek. “I believe that’s what jesters wore during this era,” she said to the wooden crossbeam. 

She heard footsteps and felt gentle fingers on her chin. Fred chuckled and tilted her head down so she couldn't help but look at him. “I helped you lace up your corset. The least you could do is help me with these atrocious tights.”

Hermione tried to inhale, but the whalebone restricted how far her ribs could move. Bloody corset! It pushed what breasts she did have practically into her throat, and every time she became flustered they... well, there was no other word for it; they _heaved_ , bobbing up and down for anyone to admire. Just as Fred was doing now. His gaze darted to her bosom, and the light in his eyes caused a slow burn to ignite in her belly. His fingers left her chin and drifted to the exposed skin, softly tracing the faint blue lines.

“Corsets seem to suit you, Hermione,” he whispered, leaning close. “All your charms on display, but keeping you tightly bound, until someone peels away the layers to find the treasures hidden beneath. You should wear them more often.”

She wet her lips, unable to control her breathing and feeling suddenly shy. “There are no treasures here,” she said self-deprecatingly.

Fred took aside his cap, closed the distance and laid his cheek on hers. “Of all the treasures in the world, one’s own self is the last to be revealed.” He pulled back enough to ghost his lips over her mouth. 

Her lips parted, and impulsively Hermione surged into the chaste kiss, demanding more from Fred. He gladly obliged and delved his tongue inside, swallowing her gasp. She wound her arms around his shoulders and clung to him as he deepened the contact. One of his hands caressed her neck and drifted down her back to cup her arse and press her against him. There was no doubt he was aroused, and every minute thrust sent a stab of pleasure to her centre, even through the copious amounts of material. 

His mouth left hers and kissed along her jaw, making his way down her neck, her groans filling the air. “Tell me you want this,” Fred whispered in between kisses. “That you want me, for real.”

Hermione stiffened at his words. _For real_? Did Fred want them to be truly together as they were pretending to be? Was she ready for that? To be in a relationship? Never mind that they were in the latter half of the sixteenth century, could she continue once they returned? _If_ they returned? And if that's what he meant? The only other committed relationship she’d had was with the younger brother of the wizard who was now kissing her. She ought to have felt odd about that, but she didn’t. All she wanted was for the exquisite sensations coursing through her body to continue, but she must have lingered too long on her answer, for Fred stopped and pulled slowly away.

He grinned, but it was more like a grimace, as if smiling actually hurt him. “Ah, right. What was I thinking? You’ve got your life back home, and I’ve got… well,” he pointed to the jagged scar on his face, “my beauty mark. Needless to say, let’s just forget this happened, yeah?” 

He turned away quickly and began pulling on the multi-coloured hose. Hermione watched with an ache in her chest. She hadn’t meant not to give him an answer, she'd just over-analysed it, trying too hard to decide what her heart wanted. And that’s when she realised something: she had always over-analysed things, thinking and rethinking to the point where it didn’t matter anymore, or worse, until she’d found so many flaws that she gave up pursuing what had originally piqued her interest. She didn’t want that to happen here, not with Fred. He wasn’t a ‘thing’ to be studied at leisure, or tossed to the side when she’d tired of him. _Would_ she tire of someone as flamboyant as Fred Weasley? She highly doubted it.

Now fully dressed in his garish red, black and white jester’s costume, Fred turned and gave her a mock bow. “Am I passing fair, my lady?”

Hermione bent and picked up the cap, bells jingling on each of the overlong tips. She placed it on his head and gave him a soft look. “More than passing fair, good sir.” Cupping his face between her hands, she drew him close and pressed gentle kisses along his scar, ending in a heated exchange with his lips. 

When they broke apart for air, Fred eyes held a passionate gleam as he leaned his forehead against hers. “Would it be cliché of me to quote Shakespeare at this point?” he asked with a mischievous smile. 

She tugged on one of the bells and returned his smile. “Highly cliché. That shouldn’t stop you, however.”

He stood up straight, looking down at her and caressing her cheeks with his slender thumbs. “‘When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself and curse my fate...’” His brow crinkled. “Oh, sod it, I forgot the rest.”

Hermione laughed and hugged him close. “If we’re lucky, we’ll get to meet the man himself. Then he can teach you the rest.”

“Isn’t there a play of his with a character named ‘Hermione’?”

“Yes, _A Winter’s Tale_ , but it won’t be written for some years.” She stepped away and gave him a once over. He really was remarkably handsome, and oddly enough the jester garb seemed to suit him. “I will be the envy of many ladies at court, I must say.”

Fred took her hand, bowed over it, and kissed the back. The warmth of his lips raised an answering warmth somewhere below her ribs. “Ah, but you are the only one I shall be obsessively wooing.”

“Wooing?” she asked with an arched brow. 

“Stalking, really,” he amended. 

She couldn't help but answer his mischievous grin with one of her own. “Ah. At least you’re honest.”

He pulled her towards the door. “That I am.”

~*~

At that evening's feast, Hermione sat on a backless seat at the Queen's left hand as her ‘special guest’. What that really translated to was that Elizabeth wanted to keep a sharp eye on Hermione; her strident comments suggested she was convinced there was some nefarious plan afoot, and the best way to thwart it was to keep the suspected enemy close at hand. 

The guest of honour, Christopher ‘Kit’ Marlowe, was also seated to the Queen’s left, though Hermione was trying her best to ignore him. She was struck by how much Marlowe and Shakespeare resembled each other, though she suspected it might a bone of contention between them. Marlowe was, so he said, celebrating the opening of his new play _The Jew of Malta_ , and interspersed his self-congratulatory statements with suggestive quotations from it. His worst so far had been to ogle her tightly-confined bosom and leer, “Ah, infinite riches in a little room...” 

Fred flitted about the room, flirting with all the women and making the men laugh. Hermione had to admit the wizard was a prince among men when it came to bringing out the humour in any situation. She smiled to herself.

“What makes you smile, Lady Granger?” a cold voice broke in.

Hermione froze, instantly wary. She swallowed the small bite of venison and wiped her mouth with the elegant serviette before answering. “My fiancé, Your Majesty.”

Elizabeth followed Hermione’s gaze, landing on Fred. “He is a man of most infinite jest. I greatly like him.”

A sick feeling began to rise in Hermione’s stomach. “Yes, he is most affable in nature.” She tried to keep her voice even. “We were promised to each other at an early age.”

“Is that so?” Elizabeth watched Fred juggle three apples, delighting his audience. “Yet he is loquacious with my ladies, do you not think?”

Hermione bit her lip to keep from lashing out. “He has always had a way with words, Your Majesty. Should he not practise his trade to his fullest extent?”

Elizabeth slowly turned to stare at Hermione, her eyes narrowing. “We shall see how ‘gifted’ he is, then. Fool! Come forth!”

The apples Fred was juggling fell to the floor as he ran to stand before the Queen. “Your Majesty calls, I answer,” he said with a dramatic bow.

The Queen gave him an indulgent and benevolent smile. “Thrill us with your wit, Master Frederick.”

Fred glanced at Hermione. She wondered if she was quite as pale as she felt. He returned his attention to Elizabeth. “What would Your Majesty wish to hear?”

Several shouts came from amongst the crowd, suggesting various topics ranging from innocent to pornographic. Elizabeth waved at Christopher Marlowe. “Pose a request for us, Marlowe.”

The thin man with untamed hair stood and bowed from the waist. “A ribald sonnet, Your Majesty. In honour of Lady Granger.” Marlowe gave Hermione a devilish smile, clearly pleased with his petty revenge for her coldness, and sat.

Everyone looked expectantly at Fred, whose attention was focused on Hermione. He gave her his trademark mischievous grin and began. 

“I saw the morning dew betwixt thine thighs,  
As I removed my source of Grecian power...”

A shocked gasp rose from the crowd; a few ladies tittered.

“As if King Midas dared to touch the skies,   
Upon thy body fell a golden shower.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped and she could feel herself flushing as red as Fred's hair. Queen Elizabeth hid her amused smirk behind her hand.

Unrepentant, Fred continued. 

“Thy body's temples, two church bells had rung,   
Upon thy chest, a row of pearls bestowed.   
The sun had set, _thy_ set, with weary hung.   
I thought, ‘How black a night!’ and blew a load.”

“Slowly, oh so slowly, I’m going to kill him,” Hermione muttered as she buried her face in her hands, unable to face the crowd's half-appalled, half-amused laughter.

Fred dropped to one knee, as if proposing. 

“I say, ‘What light through yonder beaver breaks?   
It is the yeast’! And now my belly’s yellow,   
My pole gives cause to storms and earthy quakes.   
But ‘tis not massive, I am no Othello.”

Roaring laughter rang throughout the hall, and Hermione, to her horror, found that all she could think was that Fred had disparaged himself—his ‘pole’ was definitely massive. She glanced through her fingers to see Fred wink at her. He rose and made his way over to stand in front of Marlowe with a calculating look on his face. 

“And when that final moment came to pass,   
Like Christ, I came, riding upon an ass.”

There was thunderous applause as Fred took a bow. When it ceased, he addressed Marlowe directly. “You write these dramas. You accumulate your wealth. You hold nature as to a mirror of yourself.”

Marlowe glanced around nervously.

“Just because you have small talent does not mean I lack it too. Just because you want to rut with your mother doesn't mean Danish princes do. And by the by, poetic talent is really easy to fake when thy sentences doth no fucking sense make.”

Tense silence filled the room for a moment, and then it erupted into a standing ovation. Marlowe, Hermione noticed, was not impressed. The Queen, however, was. 

“Master Frederick, your fiancée’s claim that you are a virtuoso at your profession rings true. However, I do caution you to guard your tongue in present company,” Elizabeth admonished with a stern glare. 

Fred had the good sense to look abashed. He nodded and turned his attention to Hermione who found that she couldn't look away from the heat in his eyes. Fred had spun a bawdy rhyme and verbally lashed out at Shakespeare’s rival, essentially calling the man a hack. Incredible as she would have thought it only a few days ago, she would say that she was half in love with Fred Weasley already. 

She just hoped the sentiment was returned.

Fred winked at her and she watched as he turned and made his way through the crowd, receiving congratulations and, she noted, not a few inviting female glances. Suddenly, her eye was caught by a movement at the side of the room and she saw Marlowe speaking with a hooded figure, a malicious scowl creeping across his mouth. When Marlowe excused himself a short time later, only to quickly leave with the same hooded figure, no one remarked how oddly the poet behaved. 

But Hermione did, and she safely tucked away the knowledge to examine at a later time.


	4. Chapter 4

“There’s something I don’t like about Kit Marlowe,” Hermione muttered to Fred as they walked the long corridor back to her room on the second floor. 

“Other than the fact that he looks like a poncy git, has no arse to speak of, and is a mediocre dramatist, what’s not to like?”

She stopped. “Why are you looking at his arse?”

Fred grinned. “Well, I _am_ a twin, love. If I wanted to know what _my_ arse looked like, I would just tell George to turn about before he took off to the loo.”

Hermione shook her head and continued walking. “You are twisted, Fred Weasley.”

“Among other things.” They came to a halt in front of a large oak door. “Alas, fair maiden, I must leave thee here, for thy virtue would surely become victim to my weakness if thou were to accompany me to my chamber.” He bowed low over her hand and pressed a lingering kiss on the back.

Did he really have no idea? There was no virtue to speak of. A desperate fumble with Ron after the Final Battle had disillusioned her about the idea of romance and her first time being extraordinary. She had assumed Ron would have at least talked about it with his brothers, but apparently not. Embarrassment at her clinginess afterwards had kept her lips sealed about what happened. Maybe she should’ve given Ron the benefit of the doubt.

But it didn’t really matter anymore, did it? The feelings she'd had for Ron didn’t even compare to the heat skittering across her skin from a mere kiss bestowed upon her by his older brother. The more Fred gave her in his generous and unassuming way, the more she yearned to be truly—and fully—his. 

Taking a chance, she kept hold of the hand grasping hers and pulled him close, thrilled when he didn’t hesitate to return her embrace. “Thank you for tonight,” she murmured, softly stroking the hair on his nape.

His arms tightened around her and he buried his nose in her curls. “It’s obscenely easy for me to care for you.”

Her cheeks warmed at the easy affection. Pressing her lips to his ear, she whispered, “I’m glad.” She then kissed him on the jaw and stepped away.

This left her aching for his arms almost immediately, especially when she caught his bereft look. In a moment, however, it was gone, as if he’d had a great deal of practise shrugging off actions that had wounded him. Before she could open her mouth and beg him to stay, regardless whether others might find it improper, he grinned and sprinted towards the staircase, disappearing below. 

“Smooth, Granger. Really smooth,” she muttered to herself as she entered her room and closed the door. “The man practically offers himself on a platter and you wibble over…”

What? What was she afraid of? Losing her heart to a wizard who had been nothing but gallant and protective since they had arrived in this era? Fred already held her heart in the palm of his hand… and odds were that he knew it, but was giving her time to come to grips with it or reject him outright. 

A knock on her door startled her from her thoughts. Had Fred reconsidered? Hermione rushed to open the door, only to mask her disappointment upon seeing a girl—no more than sixteen, she guessed—standing there, looking lost. 

The nervous girl bobbed a curtsey. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, but I was sent by her Majesty to serve as lady’s maid.” She bobbed again.

 _Serve as a spy, more like_ , Hermione thought. She contemplated sending the girl back to the wretched tyrant, but she knew there was no way she could unlace the corset herself. With a nod, she admitted the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Meg, Miss.” Although she didn't curtsey again, somehow she made Hermione feel as if she had.

Hermione turned her back to the girl and lifted her hair out of the way. Fingers worked quickly to loosen the ties, and as the velveteen and jacquard fabric fell from her shoulders, Hermione nearly collapsed with relief. 

Meg began on the gauzy sleeves that were attached to the shoulder straps of the bodice. “Not that it’s my place, Miss, but your corset is laced overmuch,” she observed as she carefully removed the silken cords. 

“Fred,” Hermione swore under her breath, vowing to have a word with him later. “Ah, I had a person of ignorance assist me this morn. I did wonder at its tightness,” she said offhandedly to Meg. 

Once the whale-bone contraption was eased from around her chest and waist, Hermione sucked in deep gulps of air, so rapidly that she had to bend double when she became dizzy. Dear gods, she felt as though someone had bruised her ribs with a cudgel! 

Meg made quick work of the bum roll that accentuated Hermione’s hips. “Your dresses should be tight enough to show you are a woman and loose enough to show that you are a lady,” she said, untying the stays on the five-hooped farthingale. 

Interesting. So, just show enough of the wares to whet the appetite. Good to know. “Fashions are rather different here than they are in… erm, where I’m from. I do wish to wear flattering dresses during my stay here. How do I know the best dress for me?” Hermione casually asked, now clad only in her chemise.

Meg stepped away, and looked her up and down. “If it would not be too impertinent, Miss, my sister says that a woman knows she is wearing the correct dress when her man wants to rid her of it,” she said with a sly grin. 

What had Fred said earlier? _Corsets seem to suit you. You should wear them more often._ Maybe Meg was on to something. “I’ll be mindful of that next time.”

“Would my lady care for a bed warmer?”

Hermione glanced at the brass pan with a long wooden handle hanging beside the hearth. Though she was slightly chilled, the uneasy thought of how convenient it would be to set fire to the bedding in such a manner persuaded her to forgo that method of keeping warm. “No, thank you, I think not.” She pulled back the coverlet on the sturdy four-poster. 

“Mayhap tonight your thoughts of a certain jester will be enough to warm your bed,” Meg said with a knowing smirk. “Then, by tomorrow, my lady will have found a more pleasurable way of warming the sheets.”

Oh, this girl knew more than she was letting on. “Tomorrow,” Hermione acquiesced after a few moments. 

Meg bobbed another curtsey and excused herself—to where, Hermione knew not. Probably to report to the Queen how inept Hermione was, or some such slander. It didn’t matter, at least not at that precise moment. She was bone-weary from the day’s travel, the increasing tension between her and Fred, and the almost constant paranoia she suffered in the Queen’s presence. 

She fell upon the mattress and, despite the rustling of the straw and the chill roughness of the sheets, knew no more.

~*~

Something was tickling her nose.

“Wake me up before you go go…” a voice sang in her ear.

Oh, good Lord. Terrible eighties music. What had she done to deserve this?

“Wake me up before you go go, ‘cause I’m not planning on going solo…”

Hermione cracked one eye open and glared at the wizard sitting next to her on the bed. There was just enough light from the taper he held to cast his features in a most flattering way. Did the handsome prat have to be so bloody cheerful this early in the morning? On second thought, if it was still dark, could it actually be called morning? 

“Rough night, love?” Fred whispered with a leer.

“How did you know that song?” she asked on a yawn.

He was grinning ear to ear. “George, Charlie and I found an old Muggle transistor radio in Dad’s shed once. We messed about with it and got it to work. Well, sort of. Sometimes it played music all day and night. Sometimes it wouldn’t work at all.”

“Why are you so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?” she grumbled, yawning again.

“Because I’ve had the most amazing night!” Like an excited child, he crawled onto the bed, straddled her hips and sat on her legs. 

“Get off me, you oaf!” She slapped his thigh. “I have to use the loo!”

A perverse chuckle filled the air. “You do realise you’ll have to use the piss-pot underneath your bed, right?”

Hermione groaned. “No. No, no, no. I recall seeing a privy closet somewhere in the castle when I visited here several years ago.”

Fred leaned over her. “If there is one, I haven’t seen it. Bet it’s only where the high muckity-mucks can get to it.”

“Well, I can’t look for it right now,” she grunted. “Get off, or I’ll wet the bed!”

“Oh, now there’s a new kink I haven’t tried.”

She glared at him and gave his chest a shove. “You admitted to doing as much to the whole crowd last night.” 

He rolled off to flop down at her side, laughing as she scrambled from the bed. “You should’ve seen your face. It was as red as ickle Ronnikins during a tantrum.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” She bent low and looked under the bed. No chamber pot. She peered into the wardrobe. No chamber pot. 

“Looking for something, love?” Fred asked casually. 

Hermione glared at the lounging figure. He was dressed in a loose white linen shirt and tan breeches that fit snugly and ended just below the knee. His lower legs were bare and black slippers adorned his feet. She tried not to look at the expanse of chest on display but was unable to ignore the curling warmth it sent to her middle… which in turn made her original need even more urgent. “Why are you even in here?" she said crossly. "Get out. I need to… to…”

“Piss?”

“Crass. I need to relieve myself.”

He rose from the bed and pointed to a partition in the corner. “Over there.”

Her bladder felt as if it were about to burst. “Thank you. Now get out!”

Fred stood there, arms crossed, smirking. 

“Please, have pity,” Hermione whined, dancing in place.

“If I hadn’t had pity on you, I wouldn’t have told you where it was.” He gave her a low, mocking bow and disappeared through the door.

“Oh, that man!” she fumed, unable to decide whether her relief outweighed her annoyance or the other way around. She had a violent urge to throw the chamber pot, and its contents, at him the next time he darkened her doorway.

~*~

“Lady Granger?”

Startled, Hermione nearly stabbed her finger with the sewing needle she was plying diligently, if clumsily. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

Hermione and several of the Queen's maids of honour and ladies-in-waiting were seated in a haphazard circle around Elizabeth, either sewing or reading. Hermione had been given a bit of tapestry to work on before she could request a book. She had felt a moment of panic in trying to comprehend the mechanics of the delicate needlework, but she had always been a quick study, and after a few moments observation of the other ladies deftly wielding their talents, Hermione was able to muddle through.

Now, with the Queen's sharp eyes and sharper attention focused on her, Hermione's nervousness returned. “Marlowe has informed me,” the Queen continued, “that Shakespeare is writing a play that will feature you in a minor role. Tell me how you, amongst all my subjects, garnered this honour?”

Hermione's mind raced. What was Elizabeth talking about? Surely she didn't expect a lady to act—after all, in the 16th century all roles, even the female roles, were played by men. “As Your Majesty says, it is a minor role,” she said cautiously, feeling her way. Perhaps Shakespeare had written her in as a character? But how? They had not crossed paths yet. The only character Hermione could think of who shared her name was in _A Winter's Tale_ , but how could that be? _A Winter's Tale_ wasn't published until 1623, yet Shakespeare was writing it now? “I think perhaps Master Shakespeare was referring to the Hermione of Greek mythology, not myself.”

The Queen narrowed her eyes. “Are you suggesting I am in the wrong?”

Damn Kit Marlowe, the scheming bastard. “Not at all. I am suggesting that your Majesty may have been ill-informed. I, personally, know of no play being written at the moment.” There. Let Marlowe answer that accusation.

“Is that so? Your fiancé is part of Shakespeare’s troupe, is he not? He might know of such things and choose not to share them with you.”

“It is possible, Your Majesty,” Hermione agreed. One had to be careful when contradicting a monarch. “However, Frederick and I speak of many things, including his work. It is doubtful he would keep something of this magnitude from me.”

“Hmm. We shall see.” A slight smirk curled the Queen’s lip. “I wish for you to join me at Vespers this evening.”

Hermione froze. While she knew the basics of Muggle religious dogma current during this era, she was not proficient in performing any of the rites associated with them. She could only nod in acquiescence and hope to find Dr. Dee as soon as possible, for a quick lesson in Anglicanism.

“Do not be late.”

Hermione had the distinct feeling that the other ladies were eyeing her like hungry jackals, waiting for her to make one misstep before closing in for the kill.

~*~

Hermione was pacing up and down the second floor, in the Long Gallery, when Fred found her. 

“You’ll have to patch the missing pieces of that rug if you tread much more, Granger.”

She whirled around and then launched herself into his arms, holding him tightly. “Oh, Merlin. I’m so scared, Fred.”

He returned her embrace, pressing a soft kiss against her temple. “What’s happened, love?”

Unable to contain her shivers, she buried her face in his neck. “I have to attend Vespers with the Queen, and I'm not sure I'll remember when to stand, or sit, or kneel, I don’t know the actual Latin for the hymns or chants, and I can’t find—”

A firm mouth pressed over hers, cutting off her rambling, and her heart began to pound so that she thought it might pop her corset strings. Just when she thought her knees might completely give way, they released her. “We’ll find Dr. Dee. It’s not that big of a castle,” he murmured as he pulled back slightly. 

Hermione knew she had a silly, dreamy look on her face, but she didn’t care. “All right.” She gave herself a brisk mental shake. She needed to be on full alert in a few short minutes. Biting her lip, and mindful of what Meg had said last night—and again this morning when she was stuffing Hermione's curves into a tasteful purple brocade gown—Hermione gave Fred a coy smile. “What do you think of the new dress?” 

He stepped back, still holding onto her hands and gave her a long perusal from head to foot. His eyes studied her intently, smouldering. Why had she never thought Fred could be seriously interested in someone?

“Eh, it’ll do,” he said at last, with a shrug.

Oh yes, that’s why. All that time spent primping to impress him, wasted. She had even let Meg twist and restrain her wild hair into a beautiful chignon, with a few tendrils flying loose. _“... so that any man who sees them will want to reach out and brush them back into place,” the girl had said with a wicked glance._ Hermione gave the red-haired wizard an exasperated look and withdrew her hands. “Fine. I guess I’ll go and ‘show my wares’ to that old lecher, Marlowe. He seems to find them interesting.” 

Before she could take more than a half-step Fred swiftly cornered her, pressing her back into an alcove deep in the shadows of the corridor adjacent to the gallery and hidden from prying eyes, his powerful arms blocking any escape, even as he left no space between their bodies. Her mind spun wildly, unable to form a coherent thought while his tall frame was pressed flush against hers, feeling wonderful yet frightening at the same time.

“Do you know how hard it is not to ravish you in this dress?” he breathed, the warmth raising gooseflesh on her bare arms. He caressed the slope of her neck with nimble fingers, dropping them down to dip into her ample cleavage. “So many layers. Such a temptation to unwrap, to find what lies beneath.”

So, Meg was right. Hermione just needed to find the right incentive. She tilted her head, arching her neck to give him greater access. “Maybe you should give in to that temptation.”

Fred paused, an uncertain look in his eyes. “I was only trying to take your mind off the dire situation, Hermione, not shag you in front of all and sundry.”

Her eyes flashed, hurt aching in her chest as pleasure threatened to turn to anger. “So this is nothing but a game to you?” 

He was flustered; she could see it clearly in his features. He leaned his forehead against hers. “I don’t want it to be a game. I would love nothing more than to shag you senseless right here, right now.” He took her hand and placed it on his sizable erection—there was no codpiece, it was all Fred. “I think this is evidence of what you do to me. If that’s not enough, I suppose you could put your foot there and see what happens, though it would feel damned awkward and I can’t guarantee you wouldn’t get a cramp in your calf.”

“You talk too much.” She chuckled and tilted her face for another kiss. “Promise me this means something to you.” She squeezed his rigid length for emphasis with one hand, raising the other to brush the tips of her fingers along the back of his neck.

“I swear to you on the life of my brother George that you mean... a great deal to me. That this,” he pressed into her hand and groaned, “is not at all casual.” He speared her with a heated look. “Give me a chance to prove myself.”

She pondered his choice of words. “Why swear on your brother’s life?”

“George and I are like one being. I swear on him, he swears on me. There’s no escaping it. Separate us and we die. We are each body and soul, but no one knows the difference. He is my strength and weakness, as I am his. He is the better half of me and I am the better half of him.” He smiled at her, reaching out to tweak one of the curls of brown hair that lay across her shoulder. “We're always contradicting ourselves. We want people to tell us apart, yet we don't want them to be able to. We want people to get to know us, but we also want them to keep their distance. We've always longed for someone to accept us.” He ground his hips against hers, both of them quickly becoming breathless. “But we never actually believed there'd be anyone who would accept our twisted ways. So, when I say I swear on George’s life, it's more important than swearing on my own.”

Her eyes stinging, her heart aching, Hermione threaded her fingers through his hair and brought him close. “You, Fred Weasley, are quite the hidden gem.”

“I just need a bit of a polish, yeah?”

Her heart in her throat, hoping she was doing the right thing, she took his left hand and pulled it behind her, placing it on the curve of her arse. “I want to see how bright you gleam,” she whispered.

His response to her words was, she thought, entirely satisfying, as he dug his fingers into her arse and ground their hips together while his mouth travelled leisurely down her neck, triggering shockwaves of pleasure. He pulled her closer into his arms, caressing her mouth, her jaw, the hollow of her throat, the edge of her collarbone, tracing it all with the heat of his tongue. While he nipped a particularly sensitive spot just behind her ear she gasped, he slid his hand downwards to grab the side of her voluminous skirts and bunch them in his fist, his voice turning the red shade of pure seduction as he poured it into her ear. 

“I would love to see you stripped bare, waiting for me on a bed of satin, your body open to me. How I long to touch you in all the places a lover should and hasn’t,” he murmured in a throaty purr. He tugged the fabric higher, trapping it between their bodies so he could move his hands freely, and she relished the feel of his searching hands on her trembling thighs. “To see all your deepest desires lying there, raw and exposed, ripe for the taking...” 

Fred slid his hands down the front of her thighs, the heat of his palms shimmering through the thin cotton, caressing her as he kissed her swollen lips, loosening the ties that held her makeshift pantaloons in place. When the loose fabric fell to her knees, he cupped his palm against her heated mons and pressed the pad of one finger on her clit. His touch, so intimate and long-anticipated, sent a flood of desire coursing through her body, making her feel infinitely precious. His other hand curved around her hip to cup her arse and pull her further onto his fingers.

Fred gave a last squeeze to her bottom, then shifted his hand to just above and behind her knee, pulling her leg up until it wrapped around his hip. With his mouth hovering just over hers, he whispered, “This is for real.”

He pressed his lips to hers and she responded feverishly, as if she’d been waiting a lifetime for that very moment. His lips moved against hers with hunger, yearning and tasting, shaping her pouty mouth to his, their tongues meshed in a duel that left them both breathless. 

Panting, Fred skilfully unlaced the ties of his breeches, and Hermione watched intently, almost eagerly, her back against the wall, as he released himself from the imprisoning fabric. Fred then took himself in hand and traced her swollen labia with the tip of his cock, his precome slicking her already wet core.

“Yes,” she hissed, sliding her feet apart, flattening her palms on the cool stone at her sides and arching her hips upwards. “Touch me.”

“I’ll do more than touch you, love,” he assured her. He teased her with slow strokes of his cock. “Give yourself to me.”

She wanted him desperately, wanted to slide herself down onto his shaft, but he held her firmly in place. She whimpered, “Just make this ache go away.”

“Hermione, look at me,” he commanded even as he aligned his tip at her entrance. She looked up, met questioning eyes as brown as her own. “You’re sure?” he asked huskily. “Because when we get back, I won’t let you go.”

“I want this,” she pleaded. She placed a gentle hand to his face and brushed her thumb over his scar.

He shifted his hips to press the thick head of his cock against her wet core then, bracing his feet squarely, he put his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her up, and as he did so she wrapped both legs around his waist and then her back was hard against the wall and he was pulling her hips tightly to him and thrusting home. Both of them gasped from the impact. Leaning his forehead against hers, he grunted, “Hold on.”

She tightened her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, moulding herself against him as closely as possible, discovering that they fit well together.

Fred gripped her hips hard and drove into her depths once, twice, again, her back hitting the unforgiving stone wall behind her with a dull thud each time. “ _Muffliato_ ,” he gasped, never breaking his pace. 

When she laid her cheek against his and panted, “More,” in his ear, he immediately began pistoning into her faster, his bollocks slapping her arse. She bit down on his earlobe and his rhythm faltered for a moment. “Hungry?” he asked hoarsely. 

“For you,” she murmured, angling her hips for deeper penetration. 

“Gods, how I’ve wanted this,” he admitted, sinking his shaft deep inside her once more. “Come for me, Hermione.”

His thrusting, combined with his plea, sent her over the edge and into the abyss. “Fred!” she screamed, burying her face in his neck. A moment later he joined her, shouting his completion to the rafters and flooding her with his seed. 

Held securely within each other’s embrace, they panted, their chests heaving in the aftermath as their breathing slowed to something resembling normality. Her multitude of skirts were still bunched between them, Fred's breeches and her pantalets in a puddle at their feet.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she whispered finally, unwilling to move.

“Neither can I,” he said, his voice shaky. “Which is a problem, since I’m the one holding us up.” He supported her gently as she lowered her legs and leaned against him, the wall supporting both of them. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but before he could speak they heard the sound of laughing children, and what sounded like running.

“Bloody hell,” Fred muttered, standing up in alarm and straightening her skirts to resemble something less rumpled. “Don’t need any sprogs seeing you in this state.” He quickly pulled up his breeches and laced them. 

Hermione patted her hair, noticing that a thick strand of twisted hair had come loose from its chignon. “I need to fix this, or have Meg fix it, before I see the Queen. I can't go to Vespers looking like this.”

The children’s voices grew closer, the footsteps louder. In fact, it sounded as if they were running right past Fred and Hermione at that very moment, though there was no one to be seen in the corridor other than themselves. There were several moments of silence, and then the air became thick and chill. Hermione gasped as she watched children of various ages storming past them, flashing in and out of visibility, all dressed in what looked like Victorian clothing. 

“What are they?” Hermione whispered, trembling. “They're not ghosts, are they? Nearly Headless Nick never looked anything like that. I mean, he was only half there, but he was _always_ only half there.”

“Well, fuck me,” Fred muttered, his mouth twisted in half-amusement, half-shock. “George and I hadn’t accounted for this.” He watched as three more children skipped by, flickering as though lit by strobe lights. “Echoes,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Echoes?”

“Yeah. The timelines are crossing, echoing across the centuries.” He frowned heavily. “Must be because of us.”

“Us?” Hermione squeaked. This did not sound good. “Why us?”

“Spectral entities need a tremendous amount of energy to manifest. Based on what we just saw, I'd say we just gave them at least a day’s worth with our phenomenal shag.”

“Ugh, crude.”

“Don't you think it's nice to have it independently confirmed that yes, it was as good as you thought it was?” Fred grinned unrepentantly. “I could’ve said a bit of slap and tickle, or the old in out, or the good old-fashioned ploughing the trough.”

“Thank you for sparing my sensibilities,” she said dryly. One more child ran by them… and disappeared into the wall at the end of the corridor, raising the hairs on Hermione’s neck. “Please tell me you saw that.”

“Gives new meaning to ‘beating your head against a wall’.” He took her hand and held it firmly. “You okay?”

She swallowed several times before she could speak. “I think so. But we need to find Dr. Dee.”

He kissed her forehead. “Consider it done.”

~*~

After much searching, they found Dee in a suite which, Hermione recalled from her family's tour years ago and centuries ahead, had formerly been Anne of Cleves' rooms on the left side of the first floor. He was quite helpful, providing Hermione with a small book of Anglican liturgy as well as advice on how to deal with the Queen’s temperament.

“Say what you mean to say, as plainly as possible,” he advised. “All men flatter the Queen in hope of advancement. Pay her the compliment of truth.”

In Hermione’s mind, that was easier said than done, especially when the truth was very likely to get one killed. As long as she and Fred had their wands hidden against their outer thighs with a Concealment Charm, they could still perform low-level spells without touching or waving them, though not wordlessly. If by some fluke she were imprisoned, she might be divested of her wand, and therefore of any means of escape. She could only hope that Fred’s time-travel spell would end before something like that happened.

Just as the sun started to set on the horizon, Hermione entered the Morning Room on the ground floor—where all services were held, regardless of the time of day—and curtsied low before the Queen. “I am here at your command, Your Majesty.”

Queen Elizabeth arched a thin reddish brow and pursed her lips. “Rise, Lady Granger.” 

Hermione rose and followed the Queen inside, guards coming to a halt on either side of the doorway. A smallish altar lay towards the back of room, closed off by a gilt, heavy metal gate that latched in front. Upon the altar were several candles to each side and a large golden, bejewelled cross situated in the middle. Kneeling benches were placed off to the side. 

“Tell me, Lady Granger. Do you practise?” Elizabeth asked, nodded in the altar’s direction. 

Hermione gave a faint smile. Dee’s words about telling the Queen the truth spun through her mind at a feverish rate. “No, Your Majesty. Our province was quite liberal. Though I’ve studied several religions, I’m afraid to say that I’ve retained little of the actual custom of Vespers.”

Elizabeth gave Hermione a calculating look that slowly morphed into a genuine smile. “In my sister’s day, you would have been dragged out into the streets and burned on the spot for speaking such treason.”

Releasing a breath she hadn't realised she was holding, Hermione laughed nervously. “Then I am exceedingly happy your Majesty is in power and good health.”

“I’m sure you are,” Elizabeth said wryly. She indicated Hermione was to move the skirts of the royal gown in order for the Queen to kneel. “She was not well in her last days. Do you know she had over two hundred and eighty heretics burnt at the stake during her reign?”

Abruptly, Hermione felt the air thicken and the temperature drop considerably. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said absentmindedly, looking around for the cause of the drastic change in atmosphere. 

Several taps sounded upon the woodwork, and Elizabeth glanced at the altar. “Cease, you old fool.”

“Your Majesty?” Hermione asked in puzzlement. Was the woman talking to herself? 

“It is only one of the many spirits that haunt this place, Lady Granger,” the Queen said dismissively. “There was a priest who became trapped in his own priest-hole during the early part of my reign, just behind the altar.” She nodded towards the gated altar while uncurling the beaded chain attached to her prayer book from her waist. “Rather than call out for help, he suffocated to death. Do not trouble yourself over it. He is harmless.”

_Bastard heretic!_

The hairs on Hermione’s arms stood straight up, and she glanced around furtively, trying to identify the source of the voices. Elizabeth acted as if she hadn’t heard the insulting epithet and continued her preparations for Vespers. Hermione was at a loss as to what to do.

_Godless whore!_

Breathy whispers hissed around the room, menacing and malevolent. 

Taking her prayer book in hand, Elizabeth settled on the kneeler and began reading aloud, her voice so soft and quiet that Hermione could barely hear her. Warily, Hermione sank to her knees behind the Queen and followed suit, closing her eyes.

_You profane the altar of Christ with your wickedness!_

Hermione’s eyes sprang open and she turned to Elizabeth, but the Queen was deep in prayer, oblivious to her environment. Surely she must have heard the threatening voice? 

The Queen did not acknowledge the hateful voice and instead continued on with the opening prayer. “ _Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen. Alleluia._ ”

“Amen,” Hermione repeated belatedly after the Queen ended her soft chant. 

Elizabeth, eyes still closed, began singing a hymn Hermione did not know. Even as she wondered if the Queen would notice her silence, she noticed the gate guarding the altar start to slowly swing open. 

“Your Majesty?” Hermione whispered anxiously.

No response, except for louder singing.

The golden cross that sat upon the altar began to rise, moved by an unseen force, then shot abruptly towards the kneeling women.

“Your Majesty!” Hermione cried and shoved Elizabeth off the kneeler and out of harm's way. The heavy cross smacked Hermione on the side of the head, a blow hard enough that everything went black for a moment.

When Hermione next opened her eyes, she was lying on the floor next to the Queen. She raised a hand to her head, trying to stem the flow of blood from the gash at her temple, when the guards rushed in and, without preamble, seized her and hauled her to her feet. As they wrenched her upright she saw the Queen lying on the floor, unresponsive to the attempts to rouse her.

“No!” Hermione panted, frightened beyond belief. 

One guard knelt down to examine the Queen and, after looking towards the doorway for a moment, shook his head. He turned and glared at Hermione. “Take her to the Library and bolt the door.” He rose and sneered at her. “It is a pity there are no holding cells in this castle—you will just have to bide your time in a room with no windows.”

“The cross!” Hermione shrieked, struggling with the burly men. “It was going to hit her! I shoved her away and I was struck instead!”

“Lady Granger, you are under arrest for the murder of our most favoured sovereign, Queen Elizabeth.”

“ _No!_ ” she screamed. “It was an accident!”

“You will be confined to the Library until the date of your execution.”

“Wait, what about a trial? I deserve a trial!”

“There will be no trial,” said a sinister voice from the doorway.

Hermione turned and frowned, trying to place the man that looked so familiar. Next to him, two soldiers held a bound and gagged Fred, struggling to free himself. “Fred?” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes.

He tried to speak, but the strip of cloth stuffed in his mouth prevented him. His eyes, however, spoke volumes—regret being the prevalent emotion, but a glimmer of warmth and, dare she say it, love? 

“The murder of her most royal highness, Queen Elizabeth, is punishable by death,” the man said coldly. “You have one day to make your peace with God. May God have mercy on your souls.” 

He waved his hand, and the guards dragged Hermione and Fred down the corridor to the Library. Once there, the soldiers shoved them inside and slammed the door. Hermione heard the sound of a heavy bolt sliding home. 

Putting aside the problem of escape for the moment, she ran to Fred and loosened his bindings. “Are you all right?” She touched the rapidly swelling bruise on his cheek.

He pulled the gag from his mouth and threw it to the floor. “Bastard's missing the tip of his index finger, just so you know.” He bared his teeth and then snapped them shut. “Wasn’t a tasty morsel, but I felt vindicated.”

“Silly prat,” Hermione said with a shake of her head, which she immediately regretted due to the ache blooming at her temple. 

Cool fingers relieved some of the pain. “What happened, love?”

She winced when he pressed a bit too hard. “I think the present time here is trying to merge with the past and future, and it’s creating some sort of overlap. Elizabeth was talking about her sister Mary—something about burning heretics. That’s when I heard this voice. It was vile, Fred, like the voices I heard when I wore Voldemort’s locket.”

He withdrew his wand and murmured an _Episkey_ , healing her gash. “But you saw no one? Was this like in the corridor, with the ickle ghosties?” 

“Yes! Except this was more like Peeves—a spirit able to cause damage, like a poltergeist.” She glanced around the room and cursed the lack of windows. “I can’t believe I killed Queen Elizabeth!” she choked out, then she turned her eyes to him in dawning horror. “Fred, what if we can't get back? What if this changed our future? What if I... destroyed that too?” She began to sob.

“Shhh,” Fred cooed, gathering her into his arms. “This is just a bubble in time, self-contained. Once the spell ends, any havoc we created will disappear, and the natural course of history will reassert itself.”

“Oh, thank Merlin.” She sniffed and laid her head on his shoulder. “But Fred... what if we die here?”

Fred’s silence did not bode well. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “It’s never happened before.”

Well, she had taken greater risks when she set out with Harry to destroy the Horcruxes all those years ago. Still, it rankled, not knowing the possible outcomes of a situation. “If we ever get back home, I’m going to hex your arse off, Fred Weasley.” 

He gathered her closer, rubbed her back soothingly, and kissed the top of her head. “Not my arse, love. You know how perfectly shaped it is. One dent and it loses its face value.”

She groaned and buried her face in his chest. “Only you, Fred. Only you.”

He tilted her head up and gave her a heated stare. “Yes, only me.” He nuzzled her nose with his. “For thy sweet love remembered…”

“That’s it!” she shouted, jumping up and knocking Fred’s chin with her head.

“What’s it?” he mumbled, rubbing his jaw.

“That’s where I’ve seen that man!” A feverish light filled her eyes. “Remember me telling you about the theft at the museum, of John Dee’s crystal ball?”

Fred nodded. “The one he used in conjunction with a scrying glass, right?”

“Yes! The man that stole those items is here! He’s the man that was talking to Marlowe last night, and he was here earlier. He was always dressed in a hooded cloak. How on earth did he get here?”

“Maybe he comes from here.”

“But that’s impossible. That would mean he’s jumping through time periods, altering different timelines. Plus, why would he steal Dee’s crystal ball?”

Fred frowned, pondering. “You said this berk was talking to Marlowe, right? Wasn’t Marlowe a colleague of Shakespeare?”

“Not really. They were more like adversaries.”

Fred grinned and tapped her nose. “Well then, maybe this Marlowe bloke was trying to get a leg up on Shakespeare by obtaining a device that would show him the future?”

Her eyes widened. “Fred, you are brilliant!” She pulled his face close and kissed him hard. 

When she released him, he smirked. “It just comes naturally.”

She had no doubt that it did.


	5. Chapter 5

“My dear child, such a path of discord follows you,” Dr. Dee said to Hermione as he patted her hand. “Rest assured, the Queen has not shuffled off her mortal coil as previously thought.”

Hermione closed her eyes in blessed relief, nearly sobbing. “I swear to you, I was only protecting her from…”

“Yes?”

 _Would he believe her if she told him the truth?_ “Some unseen force moved the cross, Dr. Dee. That is all I can say for certain.”

He gave her an assessing look. 

Fred, who had been pacing the length of the library searching for a way out, stopped in front of the desk where Dee and Hermione were seated. “You seem like a forward-thinking Mug… erm, _man_ , Dee.”

Dee arched a brow, and Hermione’s eyes widened at Fred’s slip. “I reserve judgement on the unknown,” Dee said, “as it has oft been proven that the impossible becomes quite plausible.”

“Are you superstitious?”

“Fred,” Hermione warned, gaining an inkling of what he was contemplating as she noticed his fingers tapping against his thigh where his wand was hidden.

“I have great respect, and not a small amount of curiosity, for the beliefs of others. Some are rooted in very real fact. Others, merely based on the fear of the mysterious,” Dee answered cautiously. 

Ignoring the warning glare Hermione sent his way, Fred produced his wand and handed it to Dee for inspection. “Dogwood, ten and a quarter inches, dragon heartstring, quite pliable,” Fred proudly said. “George’s is longer—he does have more personality—but mine’s better for Transfiguration.” 

“Extraordinary,” Dee breathed, weighing the wand in his hand. He studied the markings, turning it this way and that. “The craftsmanship is exquisite. ‘Tis a fine bit of wood.”

Fred plucked it from Dee’s hands. “It’s not a twig, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He tapped it on his palm, obviously considering Dee’s reaction to what he was about to do. “It’s a wand.”

“Fred!” Hermione ground out. “I really don’t think this is a good idea!”

“Nay, Lady Granger,” Dee said, dismissing her concern with a pat to her shoulder. “I am profoundly curious as to this ‘wand’s’ capabilities. Tell me, Master Frederick, what purpose does this instrument serve?”

Fred gave Hermione a cheeky grin, then pointed his wand at a stack of tomes on the desk. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_.”

Dee gasped and jumped to his feet, stumbling to follow the books as they gently floated around the room. He moved his hands around in the air surrounding the heavy volumes, apparently searching for mechanical means by which this feat could be achieved. His brow furrowed when he found nothing.

A loud thumping on the oaken doors of the library caused Fred to lose his concentration and the stack fell to the floor. Both Dee and Hermione grimaced at the possible damage.

“Dr. Dee, your time has expired,” came a muffled voice from the hall. “The Queen wishes to speak with you.”

Ashen-faced, Dee closed his slack jaw with a snap. He cleared his throat and stroked his ample beard in a very Dumbledore fashion. “I must not tarry, children,” he whispered to Hermione and Fred. “I will plead your case with the Queen and pray that she sees reason, for you are indeed, most wondrous individuals.” He gave them a grave look and a nod. “You were wise to hide such ‘talents’. I will return anon.” 

When the door closed behind Dee, Hermione turned and glared at Fred. “That was totally irresponsible.”

“It was necessary, _Mum_.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “It’s obvious you never listened to her, so it can't hurt to try.”

Fred’s gave a wry laugh. “You will _never_ be like my mum.” 

Her breath caught in her chest, hurt prickling in the region of her heart. Molly Weasley was and always had been the paragon of motherhood in the wizarding community. It wasn’t as if Hermione were striving to emulate her, but still, being told she would never achieve such success by one of Molly’s own brood rankled quite a bit. It made Fred’s earlier declaration that he would not let her go once they returned to their own time seem suspect, tainted in the face of adversity. 

Hermione bit her lip to keep the stinging behind her eyes at bay. She gave Fred a wan smile. “No, I expect not. Molly's a lucky witch to have so many that love her.” She turned away and sat down at the escritoire to search through its drawers, ignoring the wizard on the other side of the room and trying to push away the feeling that, once again, she wasn’t good enough for someone to truly care about her.

“Hermione,” Fred said a short time later. She heard him sigh heavily. “I’m sorry.”

She ignored him. She had found an old-fashioned quill, a half-full ink bottle and several sheets of parchment, and began writing a list of things she planned to do when… _if_ they escaped this mess. So engrossed with her writing, and her concentrated effort not to acknowledge Fred Weasley, was she that she didn’t realise he was looking over her shoulder at what she had written until he spoke. 

“When you plan to run starkers through Hogsmeade, do let me know; I want a front row seat.”

“Go away.”

“Hermione, I said I’m—”

“I heard very well what you said, Fred.” 

She felt a hesitant touch on the nape of her neck, his fingers lightly brushing back and forth along the soft hairs that had escaped from her chignon. “No one will ever be like my mum,” he murmured. “And I wouldn’t want someone I lo… someone I _care about_ to be like her either.” He bent low so that he invaded Hermione’s line of vision. “You are more than that. Always have been. I wager Ron wouldn’t have fallen in love with you like he did if you weren’t.”

She was so caught up in the sound of his soft voice that she almost missed the last words. “I love Ron, but not that way. Not anymore.”

Fred gave her a faint smile. “I know it’s presumptuous of me to say this, but I’m glad.”

She look straight into his eyes, part of her afraid to ask the obvious question but part of her equally afraid to remain silent, not knowing. “Why?”

His strong, wide hands cupped her face, thumbs softly caressing her cheeks. “Because it makes this less despicable.” He pressed his lips to hers in a fevered kiss.

Deep-seated hunger, and something else as yet unnamed, sizzled between them, and she knew he felt it too, because when he drew back he looked at her strangely. Surely seeing the same emotion reflected in her eyes, he tilted her head at the perfect angle and sealed his mouth over hers, his tongue plunging between her swollen lips. 

She slid her hands into his silky hair and tightened them into fists, loving his low groan of desire. When he ran his palms roughly over her corset-covered breasts, it coaxed little mewling noises from her throat. Gods, she wanted him! Hours away from potential death, and all she could think about was having one last taste of Fred Weasley. 

With no subtlety at all, she twisted on the chair and let her thighs fall wide apart for him to nestle between, which he did most willingly. She searched his face—his handsome, scarred visage, with honey-brown eyes staring intently at her, as if she were his world for this brief moment in time—and found that naming that elusive emotion flitting around in her chest and stomach was the easiest thing she had ever done in her entire life: _love_. Verbalising it, however, was another matter altogether. 

“Your brain is swelling from all that thinking you’re doing, Hermione,” Fred teased gently. 

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she pulled him forward until he was snug in the crux of her thighs. “Shut up and kiss me.”

“Oh, domineering! I love it. Remind me to buy you a leather outfit and whip when we— _mmmph_!” 

She effectively brought that train of thought to a halt as she indulged in nibbling Fred’s luscious mouth, robbing them both of breath. The kiss became urgent when he trailed fingers along the lace covering her breasts. 

“Did you know the primary biological function of breasts is to make males stupid?” he quipped, sounding a bit breathless, when they separated for air. 

Hermione chuckled. “Is that so? And is your brain function diminished in any way?”

He pushed the delicate fabric to the side and nuzzled her flesh. “Hmm? What did you say?”

“Never mind,” she panted, closing her eyes the better to focus on the delicious sensations his lips were arousing. “Just keep going.”

“I plan to.”

She felt the front of her corset forced down and the cool air teased her nipples into puckered crests. Fred palmed the mounds, lifting and squeezing them before groaning and burying his face between them, rubbing back and forth and then drawing a nipple deep into his mouth. 

Hermione nearly lost consciousness as he scattered scorching kisses over her breasts, her hips slowly undulating of their own accord with every pull of his sinful mouth. She whimpered when he grasped her waist, tugged her forward, and rose with her firmly wrapped around him, only to murmur a Cushioning Charm and lay her down upon the floor. 

Wasting no time, he knelt between her thighs and rucked up her skirts, his eyes smouldering when he glimpsed the impromptu knickers she and Meg had created. Her trimmed curls could be seen peeking through a diamond-shaped slit in the plantlets.

“Fuck me, but that’s sexy as hell,” Fred growled as he bent low and licked the sensitive skin just above her mound. 

“Oh, God!”

“No, just me,” he said with a grin. 

He spread her thighs, placing little nips along her mons then finally dipping to curve his tongue around her clit. She dug her fingers into his shoulders as he licked again and again, building a delicious sensation beneath her skin. One particularly strong suck made her arch against him, begging for more. 

Fred alternated between sucks, licks, and love bites as his warm hands glided up and down her thighs. She could feel her knees trembling and she tangled one hand in his hair to ground her. 

“Would you think me naïve if I told you I’ve never experienced anything like this before?” she murmured. 

“I’m wounded, love. Did our performance earlier count for nothing?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course it did, you prat.” Her fingertips drifted over his brow. “This is something different, though… isn’t it?”

He took her wrist and kissed her palm. “There’s no fooling you, my lady.” Releasing her hand, he freed the clasp on his trousers before crawling up her body, pausing to stare deeply into her eyes. “I vow I’m a good wizard, Hermione. Do you care for me, even just a wee bit?”

“I know you are, Fred.” She cupped his face and gave him a tender smile, letting her hand fall to his heart. “And what I feel for you… it goes beyond mere caring.”

“Excellent,” he said with a smirk. He shifted between her thighs and rubbed the head of his cock back and forth in her slick folds. 

“Stop teasing,” she whimpered and lifted her hips. “Please!”

Her last word was lost on a gasp as he plunged deep within her. He braced himself on his arms and rained kisses on her face as he thrust in an urgent rhythm. She wrapped her legs around his waist and arched into each drive of his hips, the force nearly overwhelming. Slipping his arms under her legs, he angled himself and drove back into her, but this time, achingly slow, drawing out the intense passion that was mounting with every thrust, every caress. 

“Hermione,” Fred whispered.

It was all she needed to send her over the edge, drawing him with her. They peaked with soft cries, as each pulse of his seed flooded her core. Shuddering and panting, they lay entwined, savouring the warmth of one another’s presence.

~*~

Fred's Cushioning Charm dissipated the next morning just as the door to the library opened and Dr. Dee slipped through. Fred and Hermione hit the floor with thud and groaned.

“Quiet, children!” Dee whispered. “I informed the guards I needed a tome and that I would not speak to the prisoners. I have only a scant few moments before I must leave.”

Hermione pulled her chemise to an acceptable height, covering her breasts, and sat up, trying to look more wide awake, and less afraid than she felt, as all her worries from the day before returned. “What’s happened?”

Dee looked grim as he rummaged around in a pocket of his robes. “The Queen is still convinced you are a spy of some sort. I am only a physick and hold no sway over matters of state.”

“That’s not true!” Hermione admonished quietly. “She holds your counsel above most, especially if Walsingham is ill, regardless of the issue.”

Dee looked hesitant, holding something in his hand. “I am truly sorry, my child. I can do nothing more.” He produced a sphere. “Except give you this.”

“Your crystal ball,” she whispered in awe. 

Fred joined them. “Isn’t that like the one that was pinched—Oi! Easy on the goods!” he yelped when Hermione nearly elbowed him the groin.

“Master Dee!” a voice from outside boomed. “Your time is up!”

Flustered, Dee thrust the crystal ball at Fred and bowed his head. “Godspeed, Lady Granger and Master Frederick.” He seized a book at random and then he was gone.

“Barmpot,” Fred muttered. “What are we supposed to do with this?” He tapped the crystal. 

Hermione rose and situated her dress so that it looked somewhat presentable. “Ow!” A twinge of electrical force arced through her when she touched the sphere, and from the startled look on Fred’s face, he had felt it as well. 

“Wicked!” Fred’s hand hovered over hers. “Think there’s a spell of some kind on it?”

“Let’s see.” She withdrew her wand and cast a Revealing Spell. “I do believe Dr. Dee is—or was—an actual wizard with latent magical tendencies!” She traced a pattern on the sphere with the tip of her wand, her lips curving into a smile. “It’s a very old form of a _Protego_ Charm, the sort that’s rarely used, if I’m reading this correctly.”

“Why rarely used?”

“Well, it’s not very practical. The one being protected must be in constant contact with the charmed object that confers the protection. It’s impractical during a duel or battle to hold onto something and fight simultaneously.”

The sound of the bolt sliding back on the door set Hermione's heart racing with sudden fear. Fred quickly tucked his wand against his thigh. With a quick whispered spell Hermione shrunk the crystal ball and surreptitiously slid the sphere into Fred’s trouser pocket. The spell would protect only one person at a time, and there wasn't time to argue about gallantry. She hid her wand in a fold of her skirts at her side.

The door opened to reveal the hooded figure from two nights ago, the very same man that had stolen Dee’s crystal ball in the museum, and Hermione shuddered in revulsion and moved closer to Fred. 

The man unfurled a scroll of parchment and began reading. “Lady Hermione Granger and Master Frederick Weasley, you are hereby condemned to death for the grievous injuries you inflicted upon our sovereign Queen, Elizabeth I, and conspiracy against the crown.”

“But she would’ve died if I had not—” 

“You are both to be taken henceforth to the Long Gallery where your heads will be struck from your body.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I was only trying to keep her safe!” She started to raise her wand but Fred’s hand stopped her.

“Don’t,” he hissed. “If you do and something goes wrong, they’ll burn you at the stake.” He cupped her face and nuzzled her cheek. “That’s not how you want to end, love.”

She was about to kiss him, knowing that he at least would be kept safe by the crystal ball's charm from whatever was planned for them, but the guards violently jerked him away from her. He gave her his trademark wink and smirk, though she thought it looked a little forced, then turned around and was pushed out the door without looking back. 

A sob stuck in her throat. Of all the stupid, useless ways to die! Not caring if they did burn her for witchcraft, Hermione pulled at her skirts to untangle them from her wand, but something heavy was weighing them down, something in a pocket on one side. She slipped her hand inside and the sob that had been trying to claw its way out broke free when she touched the crystal ball, restored to its normal size.

All the protection she had desperately wanted to give him—the only protection she _could_ give him—and he had chosen to give it back to her, keeping nothing for himself.

~*~

Fifteen elderly men, clad in various robes denoting their station within the monarchy, all of them sombre-looking, held her in their gaze. Hermione was reminded of the room where the Wizengamot held their trials. They had not offered her a chair, and her feet were starting to ache from the cold stone of the floor. Off to her left stood the hooded man, his demeanour clearly irritated, as if he scoffed at this mockery of formality before the execution. Hermione had no use for it as well—the judges would hear what they wished, and no amount of cajoling, pleading, or even facts would persuade them otherwise. 

“I know the Queen is not gravely injured,” Hermione repeated for the fifth time in ten minutes. “Nor is she near death, as you claim.”

“What proof do you offer?” one portly gentleman demanded. 

“Dr. Dee. He was—”

“Master Dee has been summoned back to court.”

 _Already? That must have been why he needed to leave so quickly._ Hermione took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to keep in mind that the men before her were probably highly misogynistic and definitely deeply suspicious. “I was with her Majesty at Vespers last evening and a golden cross came flying across the room. It would have hit her if I had not—”

“She lies!” the hooded man interrupted. “I happened upon them, her hand poised to strike the killing blow.”

“ _Now_ who lies?” Hermione said coolly, staring at the man. She turned to the noblemen. “Question the Queen’s guards. They were present.”

The hooded gentleman laughed. “Her Majesty’s retinue has also returned to court, due to their distress upon hearing of the failing health of Sir Francis Walsingham.”

“How convenient,” Hermione muttered. 

“Enough of these theatrics,” the cloaked figure snarled. “Carry out the sentence!”

“You only want me dead because I know what you did,” Hermione accused. “You stole Dr. Dee’s crystal ball and the notes pertaining to it.”

A disturbed murmur of speculation ran through the gathered nobles.

“More lies! See how merrily they trip from her wicked tongue.”

One of the men cleared his throat. “Do you have proof that Thomas Kyd has taken Master Dee’s property?”

 _Thomas Kyd!_ Hermione stared blankly at the man who had spoken, her mind racing as the pieces fell into place. Of course. Marlowe and Kyd had been colleagues, sharing the same patron—an unnamed lord—and the same lodgings. Dee had enjoyed the patronage of Edward Dyer, a poet and courtier… who had also been associated with Marlowe and Shakespeare. If Marlowe had learned of Dee’s scrying abilities through Dyer, it was very possible that Marlowe had convinced Kyd to obtain the crystal ball and Dee's notes, in a bid to foresee the future and thus find a way to discredit Shakespeare. It was the most plausible explanation Hermione could come up with, and would also explain how Marlowe had known about _A Winter’s Tale_ so far in advance. 

Now the more important question: How had Kyd travelled back and forth between the sixteenth and twenty-first centuries? 

“Madame? What say you?”

Hermione blinked, her mind processing the facts faster than a Seeker after a Snitch. If she baited Kyd, he might lose his composure and do something drastic, and shift the focus to himself instead of her. It was all she had at the moment. 

She turned to the nobles, counting on the fact they were highly religious. “You may wish to question Master Kyd about his views concerning Arianism.” At this, she gave Kyd a sly glance. “I do believe he has written a few tracts and pamphlets of vile heretical conceits denying the deity of Jesus Christ.” 

Arguments amongst the noblemen reached a crescendo—some of them bickering about her and Fred’s fate, some of them keenly interested in what Kyd had written, and others wanting nothing more than to get on with the execution. None of it mattered, however, for in the next moment, Kyd pulled a snaphance pistol from his belt and aimed it her. 

“No!” Fred shouted, struggling with his shackles and the burly men holding him.

“You’re a clever lass, I’ll give you that. But these imbeciles know nothing.” Pistol pointed at Hermione, Kyd withdrew from beneath his robes a golden chain on which hung a large pendant; it looked like two circles that rotated about each other and about some object—she could not see what—in their centre. “Dee had told me he hoped to travel long distances between time,” Kyd said with a fanatical gleam in his eye. “I thought it was the ramblings of an old man touched in the head. But when I employed this device and was transported to the exact location where several of Master Dee’s artefacts were housed many hundreds of years later, I became a fervent disciple.”

Hermione could only surmise that the pendant was a very crudely made Time-Turner, perhaps the first ever constructed. If anyone could have achieved it in this day and age, it would have been Dee.

“What sort of necromancy is this, Thomas Kyd?” the portly nobleman huffed. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Are you willingly trafficking with the Devil?”

Kyd snorted while still keeping the pistol trained on Hermione. “You fools! God is dead and you are nothing but bones already buried!”

Cries and gasps of shock resounded throughout the chamber as Hermione glanced back and forth between Fred and Kyd. Kyd was clearly unstable, possibly a side-effect of one too many trips with a very rough Time-Turner. There were side-effects even with a proven Time-Turner, as she had found out in their third year—she’d had trouble sleeping and became increasingly temperamental and emotional. Her attention focused back on Kyd when she heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked.

“You will be a hindrance no longer,” Kyd growled. 

Everything seemed to fall silent: the shouts of the noblemen, the rain that had started to fall outside, Fred’s cries. Hermione tightly gripped the crystal ball, hoping the spell was powerful enough to deflect a bullet to the chest, but not actually counting on it, since it was such novice magic that created the spell. She glanced at the wizard across the room, who had finally disabled one guard and was well on his way to subduing the other. 

She held Fred’s stare. _I love you_ , she mouthed. Tears flooded her eyes for a brief moment before a shot rang out.

~*~

She felt as though she was drowning, clawing her way from the ocean depths with no hope of reaching the surface in time. Her chest was heavy and what little air was left in her lungs burned. Unable to fight against the pressure any longer, Hermione stopped struggling and let herself sink to the bottom.

“Hermione?”

The voice was ethereal and solemn, but it was accompanied by an obnoxious ringing in her head and a metallic taste in her mouth, as if she had been sucking on copper coins. 

“I’ll start singing shoddy eighties tunes again if you don’t open your eyes.”

The voice took on an added sharpness and her brow furrowed, her eyes opening to slits, only to close immediately at the bright light.

“I got my mind set on you, I got my mind set on you…”

Oh, the ringing in her head only grew louder.

“And this time I know it’s real, the feeling that I feel. I know—”

“Enough!” she groaned.

“But I was just getting to the good part.”

She opened one eye, relieved to see Fred bending over her. “There’s a good part?” Wait. What happened? Both her eyes opened and she tried to sit up. “Oh,” she whimpered.

Fred ran the back of his knuckles across her cheeks. “You need to lay off the sauce, Granger. People will think you have a drinking problem,” he said with a wink.

“What happened?” she muttered.

“Brilliant thing, really. George and I had always tried the potion separately, so one could gauge the results while the other observed in case something went wrong. I hadn’t accounted for both of us using it at the same time. For one person, it seems the duration is twenty-four hours. Apparently for two, it’s forty-eight hours. I just estimated it would be longer than twenty-four hours because we were still ‘there’ after that time. I was counting on the failsafe of a week, but it looks as if we need to recalculate the formula to allow for additional body mass.” He frowned. “The effects wore off just before you were shot.”

They were alive and relatively unharmed. What more could she ask for? Still, she'd have thought that Fred and George would have performed at least a few more tests. Fred helped her sit up, but Hermione was still dizzy. “We used an experimental potion,” she said flatly. “And you had no idea how it would work. Or when it would wear off. Or whether—”

“You make an adorable guinea pig.” 

She rested her head on her raised knees, Fred’s hand making soothing strokes on her back. “I should be so furious with you.”

“But you’re not.”

“No,” Hermione sighed. She wasn’t, not really. “I certainly gained a new appreciation for life back then. Before, I couldn’t begin to comprehend the idea of living during the Renaissance. I mean, books and movies help us learn about the era, but actually living day to day in that time period?” She shook her head. “The paranoia, the suspicion. The lack of hygiene. How did Muggles survive long enough to advance this far?”

“By shagging like nifflers?”

“Ha ha.” 

He sat on the floor across from her, a serious look on his face, and took her hand in his. “I’ve never really been afraid, Hermione. Not even on the eve of the Final Battle. Not even when I was kid. For years, George and I used to take the mickey out of each other about what was hiding in Dad’s shed, based on the unholy sounds that came from it. One day I’d had enough of George having a go at me, so I bravely entered the lair of what I was sure was some kind of monster, a beast of unknown origin… only to find it was a Muggle transistor radio cycling through the channels.” He grinned at the memory. “Thing is, I knew I could face whatever was in that shed, just like I knew I could face whatever was waiting for me in the midst of battle.” Fred dropped his head, pain clear in his voice. “But I was as scared as hell back there; I couldn’t face watching you die.” He caressed the back of her hand. “I never want to have that sort of fear again.”

Hermione leaned forward and brushed a kiss on his forehead. “I’m still here, Fred.” She lifted his chin and waited for his eyes to meet hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Best not,” he said gruffly. “Stalking is punishable by one year’s service in the Ministry, cleaning all the loos without magic.”

She laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Her body ached a bit and she looked down at herself, taking in her dishevelled state. Gone were her constricting clothes, and the ones she had worn to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes had returned. It was a blessed relief to be quit of the corset. “So, what happens now?” she asked hesitantly.

He made a show of mulling something over and then finally gave her a lopsided grin. “Now, we spend the hols together, unless you have plans with another dashing rogue.”

“I can barely handle the one I have,” she said with a wry smile. 

Fred stood and pulled her up to her feet. “And have me you do, my lady.” He bowed over her hand and kissed it. 

Hermione was completely giddy, though she tried to hide it. The red-headed wizard did things to her that made her stomach flip-flop and her heart ache with tenderness. She went to withdraw her wand and felt something heavy in her skirt pocket. Slipping her hand inside, she wrapped her fingers around a sphere and pulled it out: Dee’s crystal ball. 

“Well. Guess it did work after all.” 

“I still need to reformulate that potion,” Fred muttered, studying the crystal ball.

“That’s an understatement. Maybe I can help with research?”

“In between scorching bouts of love-making, embarrassing the residents of Muggle and Wizarding London with our completely soppy-eyed behaviour, and general day-to-day activities, you think you can find time to research? Sounds like a challenge that will be excessively demanding and take a great deal of time and effort.” He shook his head dolefully. “I suppose I'm up to it.”

“Need you sound so resigned?”

Fred put his hand over his heart and leered at her. “I’m nauseous and tingly all over. Either I’m in love or I have Dragon pox.” 

His words kindled a glow of warmth inside her. “In love?” she asked hesitantly. They had danced around the subject until just before the potion wore off, but he had made no declaration. She tried to quell the insane urge to throw herself in his arms and snog him senseless.

He moved close, pulled her into a tight embrace, and laid his forehead against hers. “Your body is like the grass that I lay my head upon. Your tears quench my undying thirst.” His fingers trailed over her cheek. “And I love you as the flowers love the sun.”

~*~

_A rare 16th century crystal ball that once belonged to an alchemist consultant to Elizabeth I, had been stolen from the Science Museum in London, on December 9th, 2004._

_A man dressed in a hooded cloak had smashed a display case on the fifth floor, seized the object, and ran down several flights of stairs and out of the museum before security guards could stop him._

_The crystal ball, thought to be worth £50,000, was used by mediums and for curing disease. It belonged to John Dee, philosopher, mathematician and astrologer, who lived between 1527 and the turn of the 17th century. Dee became an authority on “angel magic” and was known for his belief that man had the potential for divine power._

_To the curator’s amazement, the crystal ball was recovered shortly afterwards when it was returned by an anonymous source, several days later._

Hermione folded the Muggle newspaper and placed it on the bedside table, a knowing smile on her face. Using a modified Memory Charm on the curator had been quite easy, earning Fred’s high esteem for her nefarious talent. She had no qualms about returning Dee’s crystal ball to its proper place. Perhaps it was part of a perpetual loop in time that she just happened to carry it back with her. Regardless, Kyd’s dalliances in time-travel did not do him much good, for he still died in 1594, utterly destitute. 

The winter dawn crept through the window, and she glanced at a slumbering Fred, deciding that it was much too cold on Christmas morning to leave all that perfectly freckled skin exposed to the air. So, she set about warming him up with her body in ways that left him in no doubt about how much she loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone that reviewed/gave kudos/bookmarked this story! As a side note, Dee's crystal ball was indeed, stolen from the museum and returned days later by an anonymous source, and is mentioned on the museum's website when viewing the object.


End file.
